


Brotherhood

by MinaGlasse



Series: House Aestus [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lesbian Sex, Mental Instability, Mild Language, Murder, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:39:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 184,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3282332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinaGlasse/pseuds/MinaGlasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Listener of the Dark Brotherhood understands killing, not compassion. But what happens when she discovers she is the Dovahkiin and meets the one woman capable of making her second-guess her actions? Now the Listener must face responsibilities she was never prepared for. F!Dragonborn x Lydia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hail Sithis!

**Chapter 1: Hail Sithis!**

 

_15 Last Seed, 4E201_

 

For the past two years, they have all been calling me Listener.

I can hear her, The Night Mother, too often in the darkest, emptiest stretches of the night. She whispers to me. Her words are never as grand or as momentous as those first few times—certainly a far cry from her order to kill the very Emperor I had once served, a lifetime ago—rather, they are small, almost menial, like flotsam and jetsam trickling down to me from her greater stream of consciousness… if one could name it that.

There are also times when she leaves me with a gaping silence. I see these times as a test of sorts, in which I must wait, and I must listen.

I know that she will call for me when she has a new task for me. First and foremost, I must complete the task at hand.

I have pledged my life to the Dark Brotherhood. My Family saved me from myself when, wounded, burned, and half mad with exhaustion, I crept upon and strangled a man with my bare hands as he slept. I took his black-and-red armor. I took his food and his bedroll. I found a mortar and pestle among his possessions and made a poison from some nightshade flowers I found on his person, and I covered the dagger I stole from him with it. I held the poisoned blade in my hand as I slept next to my victim’s cooling body and I tried not to dream of the horrors I had just witnessed: my swift and wrongful arrest upon crossing the border into Skyrim, my near-beheading, the abominable face of a dragon— _a real dragon!_ —and the terrible heat of the fires it breathed as they singed my hair, my face, and my hands as I held them uselessly before me. I tried not to remember the pounding rush of my blood as I made my escape.

I awoke the very next day on the hard and cold stone floor of what I would later learn was the Falkreath Sanctuary. My hands were tied. A woman stood over me: blond, sharp, intelligent, deadly. She identified herself as Astrid, and told me I had killed a new initiate of the Dark Brotherhood. She gave me a choice: join the Family, or pay with my own death.

Naturally, I joined. It was no more complicated than that, and I have not since felt regret.

Already it feels like a lifetime ago, murky, dreamlike. I actively track the passage of time now. In the beginning, however, I did not necessarily have that luxury. Originally I only counted my days in terms of my assigned kills: days spent gathering information, days spent stalking my victims, days spent covering my tracks, remaining in the shadows, and days spent in limbo, training, waiting for word of my next target.

Their faces did not haunt me. They were nothing more than business, nothing more than a means to an end. They were nothing more than work. They were work that, over months, countless months, I completed with efficient silence. I raised killing to an art form. This was why, the Night Mother eventually told me, she chose me. She said that, from the moment she first noticed my existence, she could sense in me the potential for greatness. It is thus that I am now called Listener. I am respected, and feared.

Astrid has passed the mantle of leadership on to me. The life of a Dark Brother—or a Dark Sister, as in my case—is short and oftentimes ended with violence. Such was the end of Astrid, my betrayer, the married woman whom I had loved in secret, with her burned lips making her final request of me: a mercy kill, a swift death. Now, she is the only victim that haunts me. The Night Mother will not tell me of her, other than that she now suffers gleefully in the Void under the terrible watch of the Dread Father. She tells me to be content.

She guides me with her silence in this very moment, as I stand in front of the Emperor’s door. A trail of bodies lies behind me. From the moment I boarded this ship, _The Katariah_ , I killed with a cold and ruthless efficiency. I could only call it the force of revenge taken. I did not, and do not, hide who I am. I wear Gabriella’s robes, bequeathed to me in her final breath. The symbol of the Black Hand is emblazoned on my chest.

I am Death’s clarion, I am retribution. I feel the force, _the fury_ , of the enchantment she had weaved into these garments, and how it serves to heat the magical twin fires burning in my hands. She, too, is with me now: my sister, my friend, my colleague in destruction.

I am without fear as I push the door open. I have chosen to enter this room in the most direct way, so that he might see my face. Emperor Titus Mede II sits at his desk, and has been awaiting my arrival. His final speech is immediate, direct, and with purpose, and I allow him his moment:

“And, once more, I prove Commander Maro the fool. I told him you can’t stop the Dark Brotherhood. Never could.”

I stare at him, but say nothing.

He spreads his hands. “Come now, don’t be shy. You haven’t come this far just to stand there gawking. You and I have a date with destiny. But so it is with assassins and emperors, hmm?”

Again, I say nothing.

He is afraid. I know he is afraid. “Yes… I must die. And you must deliver the blow. It is simply the way it is. But I wonder… would you suffer an old man a few more words before the deed is done?”

My silent stare still does not relent.

He continues. “You will kill me, and I have accepted that fate. But regardless of your path through life, I sense in you a certain… ambition. So, I ask of you a favor. An old man’s dying wish. While there are many who would see me dead, there is one who set the machine in motion. This person, whoever he or she may be, must be punished for their treachery. Once you have been rewarded for my assassination, I want you to kill the very person who ordered it. Would you do me this kindness?”

I offer no response. I am looking into the wizened face of the man who, simply by virtue of his existence, has caused the eradication of my Family. Although his words do strike a chord in me, I do not allow him the satisfaction of making it apparent. I make no expression whatsoever: my mind is set upon killing, and therefore leaves very little room for any sense of humanity. He notices, and continues with a hesitance in his voice. Despite all that he has said, the true finality of the situation seems to become clear to him only just now, as he speaks.

“W-well then, I hope you will at least consider it.” I remain silent. He takes a breath, mustering his will. The hesitance causes a shudder in his voice. “Now… on to the business at hand, I suppose.”

He stands and, turning his back to me, moves to the window. He looks up at the stars, likely willing them to be the last thing he sees.

Over the course of my travels from Falkreath, to Whiterun, and then to Solitude, and over the course of the weeks it had taken me to locate him in this ship, I had thought many times of which method I would use in killing him. Should it be quick and simple, I would wonder, such as a poisoned slit in his throat? Shall I perhaps stab his heart? Should I rather dismember him slowly, so that he might see his own innards?

I could lengthen his suffering even further: I have a black soul gem in my possession, and could easily trap him there forever. I could put him on my shelf, or perhaps in the coffin of The Night Mother. Or perhaps I might stuff it in his own rotting flesh, beaten to a horrific bloody mass.

When I had donned Gabriella’s robes, however, I decided that I should stay true to form and burn him. He shall burn, just as his men had burned my Family and my Sanctuary.

I sit on his desk, and I let him hear the sound of his various papers as they swoosh to the floor, swept carelessly by my hand. I watch closely the tremble which he tries to hide and the small beads of sweat which arise on his neck. I do not feel any hatred, nor do I feel pity.

I want to break his façade of patience. I want him to have it firmly in mind that no one can save him now. His entire guard, and all the other inhabitants of this vessel, lie dead, all of them casualties of his own foolish attempt to protect himself from me.

But he does not move. To his credit, he maintains a respectable amount of composure, even in the presence of Death herself. I wait some five minutes more, and even still, his will does not falter very much. My own patience, however, runs thin.

I rise up from his desk, intentionally audible, and will my magical energy to surge in me. It swirls in my blood like a furious torrent of Oblivion. I concentrate it all to the tip of the pointer finger of my right hand, which I reach out to lightly touch the upper center of his back. I release my fury and watch him erupt into a brilliant column of flame, and, with the satisfaction of closure, I listen to his silent scream.

I loot him of all his valuable possessions, which I stuff into my satchel. Then I leave the cabin and steal one of the lifeboats from the side of the deck, which I use to reach the nearby shore.

As I ride Shadowmere back to Whiterun, I am given plenty of time to think. Amaund Motierre, the man who contracted the Dark Brotherhood, my Family, _me_ , to kill the Emperor, awaits me at the Bannered Mare Inn. I am to receive a hefty payment from him.

He wears no armor and carries no weapon with which to defend himself. His brute drunkard of a guard is no threat to me. Like my last victim, Motierre would burn so easily under my hand…

The coldness of killing, it would seem, has not yet left my bones. I ponder the idea. It is he, after all, who is ultimately the source of my Family’s demise. All in a singularly strange twist of events, his contract is both the cause of our destruction and our salvation: now, we are feared across the land… but at what cost?

It has never been a policy of mine to kill outside of contract or necessity. I think back on Titus Mede’s words. Shall I consider them as a sort of contract, and disregard that he did not perform the Black Sacrament?

The Night Mother provides me with no guidance on the matter. I assume, therefore, that she is leaving this to my own discretion.

 

* * *

 

_18 Last Seed 4E201_

 

Whiterun. Of all Skyrim’s cities, Whiterun is my second favorite. I admit I am fonder of Markarth, if only because of its Dwemer architecture.

My energy is all but sapped when I arrive, and I spend a short while resting in the stables with Shadowmere. I sit in the hay, feeling relatively uncomfortable in civilian clothing. My energy depletion does not stem from the ride—I did not ride very hard, nor very fast—but from the enormous stretch of time I have finally had to come to terms with the true gravity of the situation.

It has fallen to me to lead the Dark Brotherhood. Our home is destroyed. Gabriella, Festus, Veezara, and Arnbjorn are dead. Babette and Nazir have gone to the Sanctuary in Dawnstar, and I can only hope that Cicero—I curse myself once more for sparing him—has not gone into another fury and attacked them. And Astrid…

I hold my face in my hands. _Astrid_. Tears do not come, but I feel the burning in my eyes. I feel that fury once more, that hot and cold stir and shake in my blood. I feel the familiar prickling in my palms as magic begins to accumulate in them, and I take them away from my face so as not to harm myself. I watch them as they shimmer. Yes.

Astrid asked me for one mercy killing. I will give her two. Amaund Motierre shall lie at my mercy, and by my hand, he shall be killed.

 

* * *

 

I sit upon a bench in the Wind District of Whiterun, under the shade of the Gildergreen, and rest once more. Motierre’s death was uneventful, pitiful, _boring_ even. He did, however, have some excellent valuables on his person, which are now safely tucked in my pockets. I will put them toward the restoration of the Dark Brotherhood.

I must soon travel to Volunruud to pick up the payment, but I take this moment to rest. My hood, usually drawn to cover my face, is down. The sun touches my skin through the branches of the tree, which I notice are curiously bare. Is this tree not supposed to be a descendant of the Eldergleam, or some such thing? I ponder this idly as I stretch myself out upon the bench and fold my arms under my head. I look up at it, my eyes hooded, and intend to lay for just a few minutes…

The sky is dusky when I am roughly shaken awake a few hours later. “Hey!” A Whiterun guard stands before me, holding a torch. “You can’t sleep on the benches, Imperial. Go to an inn.” Her voice is distinctly feminine, neither too high nor too low. She wears no helmet over her black hair, and her green eyes are yet brilliant in the half-light. Her posture is haughty, as is her face, the slant of her brow, her proud nose, and her sensuous mouth.

I believe she means to intimidate me.

I stand and move too close to her. Yes, she is perhaps amusing, this proud and lowly guard. She is perhaps brave, and perhaps inept. Does she not see Death standing before her? I am still numb from the high of the kill. But she does not relent under the piercing stare I throw at her, a stare which has caused many lowly wretches to cower.

No, instead she stands just a bit taller, raises that nose just a bit higher, narrows those green eyes and makes that mouth just a bit tighter. “Get gone, Imperial.” Her voice is tight, too.

I cannot stop myself: I grin. She should die, this guard. She is lucky, then, that she has caught me weary and in rare form.

She does not step back, she does not yield, and she stares directly at me with a force to match my own. I notice no tremble, no sign of fear. Instead, I take a small step back from her and make a sweeping, mocking bow. I say to her: “Immediately, _Domina!_ ”

It is likely that she does not understand my dialect, but the disrespect in my tone should speak for itself. I saunter away, my grin still quite present. I am likely deriving too much pleasure from this, I think, as I stroll out of Whiterun… but I suppose I should just let it be.

I will admit to myself, now, that any amusement, no matter how small, is most welcome.

 

* * *

 

_Author’s Note:_

 

_This story is posted on FFnet under the username AleraeEirtoren. I am she. It's just an old account and I don't have the heart to change the name. No worries._

_I should also use this space to clearly state that I do not own Skyrim, and am not writing this story for profit._

_Readers should note that, for the sake of the plot, there will be small changes made to city layouts, quest progressions, and character dialogues. I want to construct this story how I see fit and rework the main quest to make it much more interesting. That said, however, I’m not going to throw all of Skyrim into the scrap heap. Just stick with me and you’ll see what I mean. :)_

_I hope you, dear Reader, will enjoy my work. If you find it to your liking, please do let me know._


	2. The Blessings of Nature

**Chapter 2: The Blessings of Nature**

 

_2 Sun’s Dusk, 4E201_

 

I am once again in Whiterun. It seems that I can never escape this city: always— _always_ —something needs to be done here. Admittedly I find it incredible how many people in this city just need to _die_.

Cicero crouches beside me and mumbles to himself. Despite his numerous idiosyncrasies, he has proven to be an able and, perhaps, even useful follower. He and his daggers are certainly a deadly and nigh unstoppable force… Though these qualities do not, by any stretch of the imagination, detract from my ever-growing hatred of him.

He irritates me. He cannot control his outbursts and has more than once given nearby guards notice of our presence. He is at his best out in the open, where he can be loud and violent, as is his wont. He will gleefully kill anyone, anywhere, and with no hesitation. He does not even wear a mask. It is as if he has no qualms with the bounty on his head.

I, on the other hand, much prefer stealth and anonymity.

The shadows of the eaves of the Great Porch in Dragonsreach shield us from the eyes of the guards below. Our target, a visiting noble from Solitude, stands off to the side and converses with the Jarl’s steward as they look over the city. They are likely discussing the recent sightings of dragons in the Hold’s smaller towns.

I have been noticing this kind of talk all over Skyrim; it is, after all, somewhat difficult to avoid in my line of work. A brief memory of my first few wakeful hours in Helgen flits across my mind, but I force it away quickly.

I decide that now is the time, as our contractor, some desperate nameless man, had requested that the noble’s death be public. “Cicero,” I hiss, “the poison.”

“ _Yes_ , Listener.” His voice mocks me as he proffers a small bottle from his pocket. I coat the tip of an arrow with it, and ready my bow. I swear I should not have spared him.

I release the arrow just as I notice the entrance of a certain guard. That proud stride, that black hair and distinct lack of a helmet, as she approaches a fellow guard with the intent of speaking with him, catches my attention in an instant.

“ _Listener!_ ” Cicero’s voice, in a moment of odd clarity, shatters my brief observation of her. I come to my senses and see that now the green-eyed guard is looking straight at me… as are the rest of the few people on the Great Porch, including the noble, still standing, unharmed. The arrow had flown uselessly past him.

They attack.

Cicero leaps from the rafters, enchanted blades drawn, and spins about in a deadly whirlwind. I leap after him. Our target, the noble, goes down first. Next he dives wildly into an onslaught of guards, attracted from the interior of the building by the noise. His laughter is maniacal and his expression is vicious and he is already covered in blood. Guards pour out of the building in waves and attack me in odd numbers. I burn them all.

The mission has been botched. Cicero and I must escape. A battlecry erupts from the black-haired guard as she bursts from the throng to attack him.

They dance that familiar dance of death. Behind Cicero lies a pile of broken and bleeding bodies, but she is not deterred. She fights without fear of her own peril. She looks directly into the seething eyes of my mad partner and knows him for the force that he is, but she does not fail to consistently deflect one of his blades with her shield, and the other with her sword. His laugh grows ever louder, and I fear that he is just playing with her now. I see the glint in his eyes. This will not last much longer. He will kill her.

We must escape. I leave burning bodies in my wake as I make my way to them. I do not wear armor, just enchanted robes and a mask. I have no protection when, from my peripheral vision, I see one of my burning victims, in his last breath, swing his axe at my thigh. Pain erupts all over one side of my body, flashing and sparkling across my vision.

Half-blind and trailing blood, I tear the burning axe from my leg and toss it somewhere. I leap, as best as I am able, and fall gracelessly over the black-haired guard, whom Cicero had in that instant thrown down, and stop him from delivering the killing blow. “ _Get out of here!_ ” I order.

Scowling, he sheaths his weapons and, without looking back, makes his escape. As he runs he shouts back: “Faithful Cicero will clean up for you!”

“By order of the Jarl…” the guard croaks, apparently having been given a hard blow to the stomach. Her face is the very picture of fury, and her green eyes pierce into mine as if they were harpoons. “… I command you to halt…” She grabs hold of my sleeve.

More guards enter the area, having come in from the streets. I look at her once more before using my other hand to burn off the portion of the sleeve she had taken. I ignore the pain in my leg as I scramble up and, in a rushed and admittedly foolish decision, I leap over the side of the Great Porch.

I have trained before for such a situation, were it ever to arise. I have always had a plan of action for something like this, although in this very moment I have absolutely no idea if it will actually work.

With a silent prayer to any and all listening deities, I focus my hands down toward my feet so that I am arched toward the ground and taut like a bow. With every measure of magic in my bones, I cast a continuous Flames spell at the fullest possible power.

The magical fire is hot and does only a little to slow me down, but it is enough. It cushions my fall enough for me to survive with what I believe to be a broken leg. But I cannot stop here. Under the cover of the surrounding trees, I hobble my way to the nearest pair of doors that I see.

I hear a noise behind me and turn briefly to see the mad grin of Cicero as he drops a female body, clad in robes and mask similar to mine, on the spot where originally I had fallen. “Rest well, Listener!” He calls out behind me. I bless him, and I curse him. Where did he even find that body, and so quickly?

I pull hard on the slanted doors of the basement of a large building… I hope that it is the right one. They are, to my endless relief, unlocked. I clamber my way in and shut the doors behind me.

 

* * *

 

  _5 Sun’s Dusk, 4E201_

 

I am masquerading as a civilian under the care of the priestess Danica Pure-Spring, hidden in plain sight with a common injury in the Temple of Kynareth in Whiterun.

I had waited until nightfall before crawling to the upper level of the building, having carefully stashed my Brotherhood robes and mask under a loose stone in the basement floor. I had then waited by the front door until she arrived in the morning. I told her that I am an adventurer, and that I had been injured by bandits. She asked no further questions, not even my name.

The priestess is a master of the Restoration school—my antithesis—and she is rare in this respect. This particularly thankless school of magic has few true masters, for it requires a form of patience peculiar to a god: the master must be willing both to aid those who come to him for it, and then to endure the ridicule of those same fools once they are cured.

Watching her work makes me rather contemplative, if not philosophical. I can not do much else, given that my leg is in a splint and I can only move about with the aid of a cane. She refuses to heal me instantaneously. My injury is such, she says, that it would be wiser for her only to help the healing process along.

No one who enters or exits the temple seems to recognize me, not even the occasional injured guard. Good.

Once again I am most thankful for the Dark Brotherhood’s practice of wearing masks and hoods. And no one is searching for me: they all think that I did not survive the fall. I have heard the eyewitness accounts as they have trickled in through the temple doors, all with their varying degrees of exaggeration.

Regardless, I have requested of Danica that she place my cot in the furthest, and darkest, corner of the temple. I offered no explanation as to why, and she asked for none.

She is a good and patient woman. For her own sake, I hope that she does not come to discover my true identity. If she were to, then I would be forced to kill her. The world would lose a fine example of the goodness to be found in humankind, and of this, even I can admit, there are very few examples. _I_ most certainly do not count among their number.

Danica approaches me and offers water. I take the cup, and she moves to sit on a nearby chair to rest for a moment. Her exhaustion is not hard to notice. “Are you the only priestess of Kynareth in Whiterun?” I ask her, though I am somewhat surprised at hearing the sound of my own voice. It is, admittedly, quite rare that I would initiate conversation.

She leans back in the chair and stretches her legs out in front of her—most unladylike, I notice, smirking—and says: “Indeed. The temple here in the city is my charge. The goddess’s divine blessings have no doubt helped make Whiterun a thriving and prosperous city… After all, it is she who brings rain to our crops and fair weather on the harvest days.” Her accent is that of a true Nord born and raised, and her religious fervor even more so.

A cursory glance at the interior of the temple shows that, although relatively tidy, it could definitely use a good sweeping. I have also not seen Danica eat a proper meal since I came here. “I have noticed…” I begin somewhat slowly, continuing to surprise myself, “that your tree outside is dying, and the temple is full of wounded soldiers.” I pause. “I assume it is due to the Stormcloak uprising.”

“Somewhat, yes,” she replies, “At first it seemed a distant thing, heard only in the idle speech of guards and traders. When the wounded soldiers began to return from battle, I did what I could to help them. As more of the sick and injured came to the temple, my work as a healer became more important than my duties as a priestess. I wish only an end to the fighting, so that I can tend to the temple once more.” Ah, yes. Truly, she is a master of Restoration: a healer above all things, even her own duties to her gods. She leans toward me to check my injuries. She asks me: “Do you have magical aptitude, Adventurer?”

I make a quick calculation. Cicero should be hovering somewhere near to the city, should I need assistance, and the guards _do_ all seem to think that I am dead… telling her probably would not be terribly dire. “I am a master of Destruction magic, though I dabble in most schools.”

“ _Ah_ ,” a slight shake of her head, “Destruction.” Her palm glows as she gently assists my bones with healing themselves. “You open the wounds that I must close.” Her head is bent, but I can hear her wry smile.

My responding huff of a laugh is short and somewhat rough. “I do know a small healing charm. It serves mostly for minor cuts and burns.”

“Thus the patchwork job I see on your thigh?” She lifts my dress somewhat to look at the wound. “You have successfully closed the flesh above, but below it still heals. Walk gently upon it.”

“I shall,” I respond. I am a little disappointed that my healing charm did not work as well as I had thought it would. Perhaps I could, in fact, learn something from this priestess? “I would be willing to assist you when I have healed somewhat. If you will teach me a lesson or two in Restoration, I will sweep the temple floor and cook you a proper meal.”

“Hmm…” She leans back in the chair once more. “Have you a desire to tend to the sick? Assist the wounded?”

I am about to reply, but then I pause. I admit, I am not sure as to how to respond to this question. I _cause_ sickness… I _cause_ wounds. “Must one… have such desires in order to study Restoration?”

Her steady gaze reprimands me in an almost parental fashion. “No, one must not. It is but the difference between mastery and mediocrity.” She pauses in thought for a moment. “Certainly your own school also makes such distinctions between master and pupil.”

I think quietly as she moves on to tend to other patients. What innate quality makes a master of Destruction, truly, a master? I look at my hands. They are covered in so much blood and burnt flesh. The answer to my question comes to me all too quickly. What makes a master of Destruction?

_Cruelty_.

 

* * *

 

  _15 Sun’s Dusk, 4E201_

 

A chill has settled over Whiterun. A light snow dusts the paving stones which I and my three legs are hobbling over. Danica leads me a short distance to one of the benches under the Gildergreen. I have learned that she often comes here to think and to pray, and today, she is taking me here to continue my recent lessons in Restoration.

Thanks to her instruction I now know two real spells: one to heal myself and one to heal others. They are relatively weak, but they were gained through a great deal of tedious practice on my part. I am rather proud of them.

My lesson is short today, however. Danica seems too distracted by the dilapidated state of the tree. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” She says finally, and with a slight tinge of melancholy in her voice.

I look up at the bare branches of the Gildergreen. The weary wood creaks and groans in the cold breeze. “What happened to it?”

“It was taken by a lightning strike,” she replies sorely. “For years, disciples of Kynareth traveled from far to hear the winds of the goddess in its branches. Of course, not as many pilgrims these days. A big dead tree isn’t very inspiring if you’re coming to worship the Divine of wind and rains. Kynareth gives life, and we need a living tree to be her symbol.”

I continue to contemplate the skeleton before me. I find the image comforting, after a sense. Familiar. “This tree was grown from a cutting of the Eldergleam, was it not?” The lore is somewhat diluted in my mind, based largely upon hearsay and the research I would often undertake for my assignations.

Danica seems pleased. “It is.” She crosses her arms against the chill. “The Eldergleam is the oldest living thing in Skyrim. Maybe all of Tamriel. The sap is precious. It can restore barren fields or bring life to rocks. I can use it to repair the Gildergreen, so we can worship properly again.”

“You need a means to extract its sap, I gather?”

“Hmm, yes, but even if you could get to the Eldergleam, you couldn’t tap it. Not with any normal metal. Eldergleam is older than metal, from a time before men or elves. To even affect it, you have to tap into the old magic. You’ll have to deal with the Hagravens. I’ve heard about a weapon they’ve made for sacrificing Spriggans. It’s called _Nettlebane_. The hags terrify me, or I would have gone after it myself.”

Crawl into the cave and fight the witch to retrieve the magic dagger, eh? How wonderfully typical, I think. How noble. “It sounds like quite the task,” I say quietly, as I roll my cane idly between my palms.

 

* * *

 

  _28 Sun’s Dusk, 4E201_

 

Danica’s skill certainly has proven itself. I am fully healed and hale in a month’s time. Injuries such as those I had should have taken a minimum of two months’ time, or perhaps three, but surely not one.

I stop before the door and I hand the cane to her. “You have my gratitude,” I say as I shake her hand.

Her smile is warm. “I hope that we may meet again someday, although under more fortunate circumstances.”

I nod and take my leave. Cicero is waiting for me at a small distance from the stables, Shadowmere’s reins in hand. His raving never ceases, nor does my title sound any less mocking on his lips. For most of our journey to Dawnstar I ignore him and occupy my mind with other contemplations. I am uncomfortable with the fact that The Night Mother has barely spoken to me throughout the time of my convalescence in the Temple of Kynareth. I would hear her faint whispering, here and there, but never any direct communication.

We make it to Dawnstar with relatively few hindrances. At the shop of the local blacksmith, I sell off the bear pelts I had accumulated along the way. The man’s name is Rustleif, I believe. He gives me special rates and tries his absolute best _not_ to look directly at Cicero.

The Sanctuary is a flurry of activity upon my arrival. Nazir and Babette are the first in line to greet me. They take my satchel and sit me in a chair at the table in the main room. In a flash there is a cup of warm spiced wine before me and a bowl of rich venison stew. The initiates mill about, performing various tasks. The once-desolate Dawnstar Sanctuary is now as busy as a small city.

We make light conversation, though truthfully I find myself unwilling to sit here and tell them the tale in its entirety. Back in this familiar company, I feel the return of  my usual compulsion for reticence. In each of their faces I see only what has occurred… and I see the faces presently, and painfully, absent.

I excuse myself without much further ado and retire to my chamber. I try my absolute best not to think of gleaming golden hair in the firelight, of dark eyes, of a biting and deadpan wit, or of a cracked and burnt and broken body, requesting final peace by my hand.

 

* * *

 

  _3 Evening Star, 4E201_

 

In the darkest hour, The Night Mother calls to me in my sleep. _Listener_. If snakes could talk, they would sound like her. _Approach me_. I rise dutifully.

I slip on my boots and a cloak to ward off the cold of living under the ground of the tundra. _Listener_. It occurs to me, idly, that The Night Mother cannot read my thoughts with full clarity… she does not even seem to know my real name. _Listener_.

I climb the stairs from the main room of the Sanctuary and approach the alcove in which we keep her coffin. I think of it as a throne of sorts, or perhaps an altar. I look upon her corpse and its odd mangled position, and feel a prickly sort of comfort as I watch it glow with the power of the Void, which Mother gathers in order to commune with me. I notice that Cicero is asleep off to the side, curled up against the cold stone wall. The Night Mother’s consciousness touches mine once more.

_Listener, I know where you have been. It has been difficult to reach you through the veil of Kynareth_.

“Forgive me, Mother, if I have transgressed.”

_Such are the necessities of weak mortal flesh. However, my Listener, I call you now to tell you of the many contracts gone neglected. Many children have prayed to their Mother…_

The list is long, very long. The Sanctuary is sure to see a most welcome pile of gold for this. I awaken Nazir and Babette, and together, we are a makeshift, three-fingered Black Hand. We divvy up the various contracts between ourselves, and in short order, we are on the road. Even divided, our itineraries are still lengthy.

I imagine I will not be able to see the Sanctuary again for some time, so I leave a note for my Silencer to maintain order for me in my absence. I would have taken him with me, but I dare not leave the Sanctuary in aught but the most capable hands.

I hope that Cicero will not kill any of the initiates while we are gone.

 

* * *

 

  _20 Evening Star, 4E201_

 

The new year approaches. It is likely that I will be able to spend it in the comfort of my Sanctuary, and thanks to this knowledge, I feel content.

Right now, however, I am at the Dead Man’s Drink Inn at Falkreath. I am not comfortable here: it is too near to Astrid’s grave. I would certainly not have stayed here were I not so exhausted.

Through the window, I watch the sun rise above the hills. A question rolls back and forth in my mind. In my travels I have learned the exact location of the Hagraven in possession of Nettlebane: a hovel called Orphan Rock. It is not very far from here… maybe half a day’s journey, maybe less.

Shall I go there to retrieve this weapon? I admit, unique forms of weaponry are a passing interest of mine… but I am no real adventurer. I am a Dark Sister, an assassin. Before that, I was just a mage. I was never the sort to relish delving into caves and tombs, or to risk myself unnecessarily.

I remember the kindness of the priestess Danica Pure-Spring. Am I honor-bound to return it? Do I… even have the capacity to be _bound_ for the sake of honor? It begs the question as to whether or not I possess any measure of honor at all. The likely answer is _no_ , of course.

_Still_ … I fold my arms. Perhaps a little bit of adventure could not hurt. At the very least, I could find something valuable, something worth taking for myself and selling. The Sanctuary could use an extra fireplace, after all: the chill of the underground could be so unbearable sometimes… And I have no desire to pay for it from my personal funds, vast though they are.

 

* * *

 

 I regret my decision.

The thrill of this hunt is two-sided, I think, as I make my silent climb up the rock face. On the one hand, this sort of killing is not illegal and, therefore, does not necessarily require stealth… On the other, these opponents are wild and familiar with killing as well, and may very well kill me first if I do not take care.

The bodies of two witches lay below me. One took a black arrow through the eye, and the other, through the side of the head. All Dark Brothers and Sisters must be decent marksmen, regardless of preference or specialty. This sort of kill is always quick and quiet.

I climb to the peak and, slowly, raise my head over the ledge to survey the challenge before me. There are two more witches nearer to me, both of them performing some kind of ritual. The Hagraven is a little further away. It appears to be in some kind of meditative state, for it does not move.

Oh, I should _not_ have come here alone, I think, as I feel a thrill tingle down my spine. I will not deny that I am energized by this sense of danger… but at the same time, I am not yet ready to grant any creature the honor of killing me.

I continue my survey. The face of the rock is rather uneven and there are several points at which I can shield myself from their magic. Obviously, the biggest threat is the Hagraven. If I could just remove the two underlings without alerting the creature… But I am not so skilled a marksman as, say, Nazir. He fires arrows with blinding speed. The two witches below were just the result of good fortune, and truly I am not willing to test that again…

My thoughts continue to tumble in this manner until I must force myself to stop. I want to slap myself. By Sithis, I am the _Listener_! I am the head of the Family of the Dark Brotherhood! And yet, here I am, cowering from a few lowly mages and their pet hag! I child myself. This behavior is unacceptable.

I take in a generous gulp of air. I will spring up and burn them all right into the Void! For a moment I let the thrill take me over, and then I let it go. I find that cold and empty place in my mind. It is the one to which I always retreat when I am preparing to kill. I take firm hold of the ledge, and without further rumination, I spring up and conjure the biggest, hottest, and deadliest wall of fire that I can muster.

The two witches, standing close together, burn immediately. The Hagraven, alerted and furious, blasts fire of such magnitude in my direction that I can not dodge it. I counter it with a fire of my own, all while several blasts speed in my direction like great burning arrows. The monster’s magical prowess is formidable, and it is terrifying, and I am somehow thrilled by it.

The thrill breaks through my cold and empty place like a flood. This is nothing like fighting men. Generally I do not fear men, but I fear this monster. Finally, in the midst of this deadly battle, I understand why men call such exploits _glory_. I am not trying to conquer a creature. I am trying to conquer my own fear.

My wild laughter in response to this realization would, I believe, make even Cicero proud.

 

* * *

 

  _23 Evening Star, 4E201_

 

Nettlebane in hand, I stand before the Eldergleam. Even I must stop for a moment, however, to admire the beauty of the garden surrounding this magnificent and ancient tree. I have become so accustomed to living with death that the abundance of life in this place momentarily stuns me. Every small measure of this space is thriving, growing, crawling.

“Isn’t it magnificent?” I hear the pilgrim say behind me. I had run into him by the entrance to this place, and now I cannot get rid of him. If I were not in the sanctuary of a goddess, I swear I would end the wretch here and now. I ignore him and instead raise Nettlebane to hack away at the roots blocking my path to the main part of the tree. “ _What are you doing?_ ” He cries with alarm upon seeing my enchanted blade.

“I need the sap,” I say with nonchalance. I imagine plunging this dagger into him first and then dealing with the tree, but I continue on with my original task. The roots move quickly out of my way, much to the pilgrim’s horror, and I am at the base of the trunk in short order.

Wordlessly, I lift the blade. I just have to pierce the tree and give it a twist. “Please, please wait!” The man is annoying in the way that a hangnail is annoying. _I could clip him… I could slice him… I could cut him…_ “You would violate this marvel of Kynareth’s glory to fix that half-breed stump in Whiterun?” His voice is a tone of admonishment, like a parent to a child… or like a religious man to a heathen. _I could burn him… turn him to ash…_

I am doing my absolute best to keep my patience in check. I commonly have to strangle nuisances like him… _or flay them, or burn them alive, or poison them…_ “Then what, pray tell, _what_ would you suggest?” I have come too far. Here I am, being the bedamned adventurer. I just faced down that awful monster of my own will, completely outside of any obligation. I am _not_ leaving here without what I came for.

He seems somewhat mollified. He says: “Follow me. I think I can convince the tree to help us.” He goes and kneels down before the tree, then dips his forehead until it touches the ground in prayer. A small, beautiful burst of light springs forth from the branches of the tree and lands before us, and takes the form of a sapling. “The Eldergleam has blessed us,” says the annoying little man. “You should take the sapling to Whiterun. Danica will want to see that the true blessings of nature are in renewal, not a slavish maintenance.”

I pick up the little twig. Its parent tree even put it in a clay pot for me, and I think, _how peculiar_. This world can be so very, very strange. Although it is not quite what I have come for here for, I can nonetheless acknowledge that, at least, everyone gets something positive out of this method…

_Ah_. I feel the exhaustion like a pinching headache between my eyes.

 

* * *

 

  _25 Evening Star, 4E201_

 

The familiar stone walls of the Temple of Kynareth surround me once more. I watch as Danica performs her ministrations, both to her patients and to the sapling. In the end, she was pleased, although it had taken some convincing. I am loathe to admit that the little pilgrim man had a point.

The death of one will make for the birth of another. It is a notable lesson, however common.

I have been given room and board here for the night. I am tired from travel, and from battle. I hope that The Night Mother will not take offense. I rest in my corner. The statue of the goddess Kynareth seems joyful as it gazes down upon the sapling before it, and still I find myself questioning how in the world the tree had conjured it in a clay pot.

In any case, my good deed is done, my supposed debt of honor repaid. Nettlebane might also fetch quite a fine price if sold to the right circle of mages. Tomorrow, I will return to Dawnstar and to my Family, and adventuring such as this shall no longer be a concern of mine.

Such are my musings… until I hear a distant blood-curdling roar as it crashes over Whiterun.

 

* * *

 

  _Author’s Note:_

 

_I do not own The Elder Scrolls Series. This fanfiction exists for no purpose other than some nonprofit recreation for a stressed-out grad student._


	3. Dragon Rising

**Chapter 3: Dragon Rising**

 

_25 Evening Star, 4E201_

 

That cold feeling dips down into my blood. It is that same one that I felt in Helgen. It is the one that returns to haunt my dreams too frequently, accompanied by such powerful, such terrible chanting. _Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin_ , I hear over and over again in my sleep, _Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin_.

My mouth is dry. I feel a pull. It tugs on me like some horrible thread tied to a willfully forgotten fate.

Some nameless, faceless guard rushes into the temple. He calls for Danica, and after an energized and rushed conversation, the two are out the doors in short order. I rise and follow them. My legs seem to act without my having ordered them to.

From my position on the plateau of the Wind District, I can see a brightness in the distance. It is a great fire. Even from afar, I can see that it burns clearly and furiously and with an intensity like that willed by the wrathful hand of a god. I feel the insistent creeping of that dire red thread. I feel its spirit bind my quaking hands.

“Mage,” the same nameless guard—or perhaps another, I am not certain—calls out as he approaches, “by order of the Jarl, all able-bodied men and women must report immediately to Dragonsreach.” His tone is formal and it is final. He jogs away quickly thereafter, likely to seek further aid from the townspeople. I am otherwise ignored amidst the chaos which has suddenly awoken in each city district.

I inhale deeply and smell the fumes of impending battle. I feel my heartbeat in my wrists, in my neck. Obviously, it will be risky for me to escape through the front gate. I cross my arms and retreat into the shadows to think. I could scale the wall. I have, of course, been forced to do such a thing in the past. I survey my surroundings. I need rope and a hook. Men and women of various races mill about in a flurry of near-panicked activity. They carry the various implements of war: swords, bows, axes, maces…

I spy a length of rope by one of the market stalls. Like a fish through water, I dart quickly through the river of people and snatch my prize.

Rope in hand, now I must find a hook. My sense of urgency leaves me near to breaking. I rise from my crouch and spin about, only to be met with the disapproving green glare that I have, I will admit, thought of more often than is proper. “Imperial,” oh that voice, that haughty, deep feminine voice, “by order of the Jarl—”

A horrible boom of a roar cuts her off. I feel the palpitation of my heart, the onset of quick, shallow, uncontrollable breathing, the quake, the distinct tingling in my nose and cheeks…

The guard is momentarily stunned. I cannot find my cold and quiet place. My vision is clouded and pulsating. I know only that I must escape and that the guard must not see the disturbed expression upon my face. I must escape. I must run. I throw the rope to the ground and bolt for the main gate, risks be damned. I must get out. My chest aches from my hammering heart. Another roar. The ground shakes.

I will run all night if I must. I can make it as far as Windhelm, surely, or—I daresay— as far as my native Cyrodiil herself. They will chase me and I will outpace them.

I flee with the speed of a bird on wing… _or a dragon_ …

“Wait!” The guard shouts from behind me. “Imperial!”

No, no, do not follow me, not with that same fury in your voice, you lowly woman. I scramble through the gate and ignore the nearby guards who command me to halt. One nearly manages to grab me by the scruff of my collar but I am outside and running with the frantic speed of a hunted deer before he is able. My blood beats in my ears and in my hands, which crackle now with an uncontrolled and panicked fire. The thrill is so strong, so pervasive, that I can not stop the magic as it bursts from my skin. I must run, _I must run_. The tightness of my throat is nothing against the force of my furious and quick and hollow breaths.

The roar resounds and pierces me once more and the ground shakes and the monstrous fire lights up the sky above, bright as the sun. It is as if the dragon follows me. “Imperial!” The guard is behind me, the dragon above.

“ _Dovahkiin!_ ” Its voice is terrible, terrible. I run ever faster. A tempest from its wings throws me to the ground, as if I were no more than a child’s toy. I flip in the air and land hard on my back. I look up, and there it is: my fate, the great and fiery roaring end to this miserable, traitorous mage. It rears its head back. I too will be burned, and I think, how fitting. Before my eyes I see a flash of blond hair, black eyes, burnt flesh. _I am on my way to you…_

Just as I close my eyes I hear the great beast cry out. I open them again and see an arrow buried in its neck. “You die this day, dragon!” Her again. She knocks another arrow in her meager bow, so completely bound to her duty, so very fearless in the face of death. Such a great white knight, she is. The dragon turns to her as she fires again. Its scorching breath misses her as she rolls to avoid it.

My magic crackles. Elements burst to a fro about my hands and arms. She fights on, ignoring me, protecting me, her city, her people. I feel the force of the tundra as ice accumulates on my fingertips.

I still want to run. I could sacrifice this woman and make my escape. The black-haired guard. The white knight. How many of her comrades have fallen on my blade, on my arrows, my fires? Now, unknowingly, she even protects Skyrim’s most accomplished assassin.

I stand. I feel the frost in my bones. It forms a strange contrast with the wild heat of my pulse. _If the creature is composed of fire,_ my old Breton master would say, a lifetime ago, _freeze it_.

I feel Astrid at my shoulder, her distaste palpable, _You coward_.

A battlecry thunders from the mouth of the guard. She is tireless, fearless.

I draw the magic from my deepest fibers and weave my hands and fingers in a slow and prescribed pattern. The power of the ice rushes me with full fury. I aim, and fire. The beast cries out and crashes to the ground when my ice spike pierces its wing.

I fire again. I draw upon the force of my blood, my breath, the enchantments on my unmarked robes. Ice pierces the armor of its side as it lashes out at me with its great talons… and misses me by a hair. I dodge its fire and its claws, rolling, ducking. Eventually a talon does cut through my forearm, sharper than a blade. Then, a slice across my ribs. My blood flows like a river. I fall. The thrill grips me. This is man nor Hagraven. Very likely, I think, I am going to die.

The guard, sword drawn, leaps upon its scaled back and drives her weapon through again and again. She is a true Nord, she with her battle song pealing from her lips. It shakes her off and she lands with some small measure of grace before the dragon’s tail swats her back a short distance. It brings up a great claw, ready to crush her like an insect.

Filled with desperation, I sap my last reserves of strength and cast a final spell. As my vision fades I hear a great howling roar, and then an odd crackling, and detect the smell of burning flesh. _The guard_. It burned her. I could not protect her after all.

Then my hearing fades. Just before the world falls away I feel a rush of sorts, which, truly, I could never better describe than as some immediate and final coldness, or as if I have just walked through the ethereal form of a ghost. A voice, deep, rumbling, speaks to me from within my mind: _FUS_.

 

* * *

 

  _27 Evening Star, 4E201_

 

Miraculously, somehow, I am alive. Although my eyes are closed, although I cannot move, I know I am alive because I am in pain. Only the living feel physical pain, surely.

Then again, I could be in Oblivion among the souls of the wicked. That certainly would not surprise me, either.

But I am in a bed, of that I am sure. It is soft. I wiggle my fingers as wakefulness comes to them. It is composed of expensive materials: silk, fur. My arm hurts terribly. There is a tightness about my midsection. Bandages.

“Awaken, Adventurer.” The voice is familiar. _Danica_. “I know you can hear me, Adventurer. I can see your stirring-about.” I open my eyes and am met by low light; that, I think, was considerate of her. Her face is kind, her posture relaxed, as she sits beside my bed. “Welcome back.” Her voice is both gentle and tinged ever so slightly by irony. “Would you like a cup of water?”

I nod. “How long…?” I manage to rasp as she hands me a cup from a nearby table.

“About a day-and-a-half, or so.” She helps me to sit up and sip from the cup. I hold it in my left hand and she braces my grip. I can move my damaged right arm, though I would prefer not to. “You needed the rest, and you will be needing much more. You have lost a great deal of blood. If the Captain had not managed to stem the flow, as she did, you would have died.”

“... The Captain?”

“She who aided you in battle. Do you not remember your own friend? I heard that the two of you rushed out alone to face the beast. Adventurer, I admit this to you out of kindness: You both are either very brave, or very, very foolish.” She pauses, then says: “Really, to have done such a thing…” She looks distant for a moment, a half-smile on her face.

_A friend!_   What a quaint assumption. Then I am struck by a sobering thought: did she not die by the dragon’s fire? I smelled the burnt flesh myself! “Danica—”

The door opens. Irileth, the housecarl of Jarl Balgruuf, enters. “Ah, Dragonborn, you are awake.”

My thoughts meet an abrupt halt. _Dragonborn?_

My face must be frozen in either horror or bewilderment, because Danica lays a soft hand upon my arm. “When you killed the dragon by your magic, you absorbed its soul. The Captain saw it, as did all the guards watching from the battlements and those rushing to your aid.” She pauses for a moment while she looks me directly in the eye. “It is an honor… Dragonborn.”

Ah, that red thread. I was justified in feeling it, then. I close my eyes momentarily. My ribs hurt. My arm hurts. I am tired. I do believe that Danica has administered some sort of calming drug to me… Perhaps this is why I am not crying and screaming in response to this wonderfully ironic twist of fate.

I almost want to laugh. Yes, how appropriate: I shall be the villain turned heroine, the latest scion of my House to tread willfully through divine ire. Yes. Send me, the Listener, the Dragonborn, _Dovahkiin_ —yes, that is the meaning of this torturous words which resounds constantly in my head—to risk life and limb to solve all your god-damned problems. Yes.

Irileth clears her throat. “Are you able to walk, Dragonborn? The Jarl wishes to speak with you as soon as possible.”

“She needs time yet, Irileth.” Danica’s voice is a balm. “Sleep a little longer. I will tend to your wounds as you do.” She places her hand behind my back and helps me to lie back down. My exhaustion returns quickly, and sleep takes me far away once more.

 

* * *

 

  _30 Evening Star, 4E201_

 

The black-haired guard leans against the wall. So, she is also Captain of the Guard. This must be a recent development, then; my profession requires, after all, a thorough knowledge of a city and its elite guards.

Her gaze is intense and unwavering. She makes no expression otherwise as she studies me. I sit in my fine bed, feeling much, much better than in the days before. Today, my visitor and savior wears civilian clothing: trousers and a tunic and deerskin boots. She dresses like a man, though I doubt a man could make such simple clothing so striking.

We stare at one another. We are now sisters in some great exclusive victory… or some such Nordic interpretation of recent events. No matter how long I may live here, I will always be a foreigner to this land, it would seem.

She opens her mouth, takes in air to speak, then releases it again and closes her lips. This is the first that she has come to visit me. I had half-expected, after learning of her survival, that she would not come here. She must certainly resent me to some degree, after all. She rallies herself once more: “It is… an honor… Dragonborn.”

Ah, of course. She would resort to formalities when in doubt. Though I cringe inwardly at my new appellation, my expression remains composed. “And a pleasure, Captain.” I wonder if she remembers me from the night below the Gildergreen: the contemptuous Imperial woman bold enough to test her steely nerves. I would presume it so. “And another pleasure to see you, for once, out of uniform and eye-to-eye with the common woman.”

I indulge in her resulting blush, in the lowering of her eyes. “You are not… a common woman, Dragonborn.” So, dear Captain, you are strong in the face of any deadly foe, but you blush when faced with another woman? An indulgence indeed. “... Not now, anyway.” The Captain of the Guard clears her throat and looks directly at me, once more. “Dragonborn,” she pushes herself off the wall and approaches my bedside with a slight caution, “I don’t know what your intentions that night were—whether to flee the dragon or take it away from the city and fight it alone—and I don’t want to know… But you defeated it with valor, and I’m honored to have seen what I saw.” She thrusts out her hand. “I want to introduce myself properly. My name—”

“Dragonborn!” Irileth enters, her expression cross. “The Jarl grows impatient. These times are pressing. I know that you are not completely well after only a few days of treatment, but you _must_ go speak with the Jarl. The Captain will assist you with walking if it is necessary.”

The Captain retracts her hand, her expression the height of seriousness. But then she holds it out again, palm up. “Please… allow me to assist you.” I rise and, supported by her arm, I am led to the throne room. She is strong and sturdy. I am close enough to detect her scent, and it is intriguing: not quite like soap… more like what ice smells like, or perhaps the pines of the tundra on a cold day.

She is balanced and walks with an assuredness of step found only in a truly fine warrior: not very quiet, so, bad for stealth, but also with great power so as to help keep her in battle. She is the type who makes for both an excellent fighter and an excellent mother… I smirk a little at the thought and at the strange pathways down which my analysis of her is turning.

There are other people in the throne room who seek the Jarl’s attention, but as soon as I enter, they fall silent and defer to me. The Captain holds fast.

“Dragonborn,” Jarl Balgruuf greets me, “I am glad to see you on your feet. You must give me a full report of what befell you.”

Jarls. I have never liked them. I have even killed a few! Look at this man. He knows not to whom he is speaking. Yes, Balgruuf, the Listener herself! I have killed men in your very home and right under your nose… two of them at your own behest, even. Perhaps one day these hands shall also bring _your_ death.

But I do my best to reign in my sarcasm, reminded of my place, as it were, by the feeling of the Captain’s arm as it holds me upright. I relate to him what had happened.

“So… you really are Dragonborn, then.” He strokes his bearded chin. “The Greybeards summoned you a few days ago. You slept right through it. Danica Pure-Spring has been adamant that you need rest.”

“The Greybeards?” I ask. Here, it would seem, lies the extent of my knowledge about Nordic culture. It had been a stretch that I knew anything at all about the legend of the Dragonborn: it was merely from a chance reading of an older text.

“Masters of the Way of the Voice,” Balgruuf replies. “They live in seclusion on the slopes of the Throat of the World.”

Yes! Of course! Climb to the top of the highest mountain in Tamriel and speak with a bunch of rotting old sages to learn of some prophecy of something-or-other. Yes. “And what do they want?”

“The Dragonborn is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice—the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu’um, or Shout. If you really are Dragonborn, they can teach you how to use your gift.”

Ah, my mistake! Climb the highest mountain to learn the _secret magic power_ from the rotting old sages. “I… see.” It could not be helpful to them, then, that I am planning to escape this place as soon as I am able…

“There is one more thing, Dragonborn.” He says with a tone of formality. “You have done an incredible service to Whiterun, and for that, this city is ever in your debt. I wish to bestow upon you the highest honor that I am able. I hereby name you Thane of Whiterun.” He reaches down next to his throne and picks up an enchanted axe, which he offers to me. “Please accept this from my personal armory as your badge of office.” Numbly, I reach out to take it. It is heavy, and I nearly drop it before the Captain takes it from my hand—I never have been one much for heavy weapons. Balgruuf strokes his beard once more. “You will also need a housecarl…” He looks to the Captain. “Lydia, I am assigning you to the service of the Dragonborn. I know your potential is greater than what is necessary for your position now. Serve her well, and bring honor to our Hold.”

We look at each other. She is tall, taller than me. She looks down at me with those green eyes of hers. “Uh… honor to you… my Thane.”

Lydia. Her name is Lydia.

 

* * *

 

  _31 Evening Star, 4E201_

 

_Listener…_ Mother’s voice. In an instant I feel emotional, like a lost child. _Listener…_

I awaken. The room is quiet, and so am I. I wonder if I had only dreamed of hearing her voice. Outside, the early morning burns brightly over the new fallen snow. It is a last lovely sunrise for the last day of the year. I sigh inwardly, knowing that I will not be able to spend it in the Sanctuary.

Lydia stirs from the other side of the room. She had insisted upon setting herself up there in the corner, like some kind of dog, and lies upon a pile of furs. Honor-bound, stiff-backed Lydia. The real problem here is what I am actually going to do with her.

To bring her back to the Sanctuary would be out of the question, much less tell her of my true identity. I am almost certain that her pride could not withstand being bodyguard to a murderer. This means that I must leave her behind… and not tell her where I am going, and likely not quite ever come back, and possibly get arrested for murder at some point… in which case she would find out anyway…

My mind turns round and round much in this way as Lydia rises. She goes into the side room, washes herself using the basin there, and cleans her teeth. I numbly watch her go about these ablutions. “I bid you a good morning, my Thane,” she says as she finishes.

“Good morning.” I feel a strange sadness as I look at her. Is she to serve me? I have a whole organization of assassins for that already. This thought rails against the sadness, protests it, causes me to question it. Why do I feel so… forlorn? I must return to the Sanctuary. I must speak with Mother and the others. I must leave her behind.

But where would she go? Can she live here, still?

I look at her, and she looks at me. “If I may ask, my Thane…” She pauses, hesitant, unsure as to what boundaries exactly lie between us. “… If you would permit me, I would like to know… I have only ever heard your titles… What is your real name, my Thane?” Her expression, so earnest, cuts me further. I face now, I realize, neither man, nor beast, nor Hagraven, nor dragon; no, this is much, much more formidable: I face a woman.

“My name…” I want to laugh. No one in Skyrim has ever asked. I have been called Prisoner, Imperial, Sister, Assassin, Coward, Mage, Listener, Dragonborn, and of course the ever-ready _You_ and _You-There_. But my name? The House name of my mother, and hers? “My name… Lydia… is Amara Leone Aestus, of the Aestus bloodline of Cyrodiil. Do you know of it?” This speech feels so strange. My name sounds strange on my own lips.

“Aestus… yes. That’s the line of the Hero of Kvatch! The destruction mage, Aestus the Fire Hand.”

“The very same.” I feel like I am sharing some naughty little secret.

Lydia looks as me now with… well, an incalculable expression. It is something positive, or at least I hope it is. “I am… I am doubly honored, my Thane, Lady Aestus—”

“Please do not use that name.” I cut her off, as I dislike its sound. I have not necessarily cast it off, but for me it has always seemed to carry with it that unwanted sense of duty, or of destiny.

Her back stiffens. Her eyes cast down in deference. “My Thane.”

I look at her for a moment, her expression, her posture, her sudden outward submission to myself. My memories play on the image of the haughty guard, bound to the honor of serving her city and therefore bound to look down at me, the loafer that I was. I decide that I do not like this new image, this submissive servant before me. I can see that, outside of her rigid commitment to her personal honor, it is against her nature to submit. I can hear it in the awkward way she speaks to me, as if she is trying to contain herself.

I rise from the bed and approach her. Already in my life there are too many worms for me to step on, too many downcast eyes for me to command. This woman does not actually fear me, not like that. Even I, perpetually in my own special place in hell, wish to appreciate fully the beauty of that. Even from the fires.

“Lydia,” I say as I slowly and gently reach up to raise her chin, and cause her eyes to meet with mine. I hear a small, quick intake of breath from her at the contact. “Please look into my eyes when you speak with me, and please call me Amara.”

Those green eyes are wide. “Yes…” she breathes, “as you wish… Amara.”

 

* * *

 

  _Author’s Note:_

 

_I, a humble fan, am composing this penniless piece of fiction for the mere pleasure of doing so. All rights belong to Bethesda, though my love for this game is, in fact, my own._

_Dearest Reader, I hope you are enjoying this journey as much as I am. Reviews, praises, and criticisms, are all most welcome._


	4. Erik the Slayer

**Chapter 4: Erik the Slayer**

 

_2 Morning Star, 4E202_

 

I feel quite well now. The dragon’s attack has left me with no more than a smattering of scars. These, I admit to myself with rue, seem to be part and parcel of leading a life in this harsh and desolate land.

I stand stark naked before a looking glass in the Jarl’s well-appointed bathing room. The sop sleeps peacefully in his bed in the other room, and is completely unaware of my having picked the lock to help myself to a few of his luxuries.

I would have made a fine thief, I think, as I study my form under the small magelight I have cast. The shadows hide me as if I were their own beloved. Locks invariably fall open for me, ever willing to allow me to share in the secrets they keep… Quite like the fine furs strewn about this lavish room—I grin—and quite like the many gold pieces found lying about, completely forgotten by their spoiled and foppish owner. Quite like this wonderful mirror which, if only I had the gift of anonymity and a minion to carry it, I would steal without second thought. Much to the luck of Balgruuf, however, I have neither of these aids at the moment.

I _can_ help myself to these fine soaps, however. I clothe myself and gather a few from the cupboard under the washbasin. The servants will find a few, though not all, in a barrel in the kitchen shortly after I have left.

I return to my room and spy Lydia lying fast asleep in her self-appointed corner. Throughout the evening I could rather easily tell that she is upset with me: she did not take well to my announcement that I am going to part from her. But she can not, under any circumstance, accompany me to where I am going, not to my Sanctuary.

I lean out the door, call a sleepy servant, and tell her to prepare a bath for me. I cannot help but to be wide awake: finally, after all this wretched time, a Dark Brotherhood courier found me in the night and delivered several rather important pieces of correspondence. I sorely yearn to return to my Family and my place at its head, however well my trustworthy Silencer and Black Hand have been faring.

And then, of course, those darker thoughts quickly return to the forefront of my mind. I brood on them as I watch two bleary-eyed servants enter the washroom and fill the tub with steaming water.

When finally left alone, I take my pilfered soaps from my satchel and disrobe. I slowly step into the bath. It has been _demanded_ , apparently, that I travel to the peak of the Throat of the World so that I might learn the Way of the Voice… whatever that is. I allow my body to relax, and I relish the heat. The red thread tugs at me from somewhere deep within myself. So, I am Dragonborn. So, it is upon my shoulders to be the killer of dragons and to eat their souls, and from this, to learn their powerful tongue. _So what?_ The thought surfaces. I lived quite well enough without such power before, so why should I go to such pains to obtain it now?

I sink deeper into the water and, through an adjacent window, I watch the sun as it begins to rise. Of course, the awakening of the dragons and my own _awakening_ —for lack of a better word—cannot be coincidental. No—the gods, the Elder Scrolls, destiny, what have you—these things never work in such a mundane fashion, as history teaches us again and again. I know for a fact that some greater event is bubbling up, just over the horizon.

Regardless… if the dragons will come, then they will come. Just as it is their destiny to toss mortal lives into the Void, so is it mine. I briefly submerge my whole head. People are so afraid of death… and yet they know that, one day, it will inevitably come for them. It will come for me as well.

And then I feel a twinge at the reminder of my own hypocrisy.

I come up for air and hear a small stirring from within the sleeping chamber. “Amara?” Lydia’s voice calls out softy, tinged ever so slightly by sleep. It would seem the servants have awoken her, although she is somewhat late in her response to their noise. I find myself smiling: so much for being a diligent housecarl.

“I am in the washroom.” I reply. “You may enter.”

She gently opens the door. Upon seeing my present state of undress, however, she gasps quietly and lowers her eyes. “My Thane! You did not have to—”

“Amara.”

“Amara,” her blush is apparent, “you didn’t have to let me in if you’re…” She trails off, her eyes fastened quite securely to the floor. “I wanted to talk to you but it’s not so urgent that… well…”

Oh modest Nords! I smirk in spite of my brooding. “Does my nudity offend you, Lydia?” Oh, the poor woman. The bathhouses of the Imperial City would throw her into a fit, I am sure. “Am I truly such an affront to your senses?” I tease.

“No! No, no… Uh… my Thane, Amara, you are… you are, of course, if you’ll permit, uh…” she clears her throat, according to her apparent habit, “... very beautiful.” She folds her hands behind her back and gathers herself into a stiff soldier’s stance.

I let a few moments pass in silence between us as I cast a fire spell to further heat my bathwater. Lydia remains stock-still. Although goading her seems to be one of the few things which uphold my mood during this deplorable convalescence, I choose to put it aside for the moment. Gently, so as to release her from her inner turmoil, I say: “What is it you wanted to discuss?”

She huffs through her nose, steels herself, and raises her eyes to look directly into mine. “I want to accompany you. The journey doesn’t matter, nor the destination, nor the mission. I am your sword and your shield. Please let me perform my duties.”

Ah, the green-eyed guard and her honor. I sit up and begin to wash. Lydia has apparently found her strength, however, for now her countenance does not waver, even as I perform these rather intimate actions. There she is, the Captain who I had so unknowingly missed. “I have already given you my decision.”

Such displeasure! She makes it clear with her facial expression. There are two kinds of Nords, I decide, as I wash my hair: those who strive to void themselves of emotion and all that it entails, and those who burst with emotion and, whether consciously or not, allow their feelings to be written distinctly into their expressions.

I do believe that my housecarl takes after the latter. “But my Thane—”

“Amara.”

“Amara, please reconsider. My duty to you is sacred—”

“Remind me, Lydia, of these duties?” I cut in.

“I am your sword and your shield. It’s my duty to protect you, and all that you own, with my life. I am sworn to… carry your burdens. They can be either physical or emotional. I serve to protect your honor as well as my own. I am to serve you by following your orders…” she notices the trap, “... without question.”

Though her eyes still bore into my own—for as long as my current activity will allow me to return her look—her head dips ever so slightly. She makes her frustration obvious. Even with the small distance between us, I can see it burning there.

Surely her jarl will allow her to keep up residence here… will he not?

_Go on, Lydia_ , a small part of me wishes to say, to provoke her: _fight me._ No one defies me, Lydia, no one dares. I am the day’s most accomplished assassin, the killer of an emperor! It has been so long since my orders have been questioned that I find it almost refreshing… invited, even!

“Without question,” I repeat. I dip my hair under the water and wash out the soap.

“Then allow me to make a statement,” she fires back. Yes, I do like this woman. She is honor-bound, stiff-backed, modest, and noisy… but she is clever. She is brave, too. Many in her place would have died already; although, of course, she is rather unaware of this fact. “You’re the Dragonborn. You’ve been chosen by Akatosh to defend mortalkind from the dragons. It’s a task fit for a god, and although you’ve been touched by a god, you’re still mortal. Should you fall, who would protect you? Well I’ve done it once, and I’ll do it again.”

I scowl.

She pauses for a moment, and then continues: “I’ll admit: I remembered you that night… You were the woman from under the Gildergreen…” She shakes her head slowly. “If only I’d known who I was talking to…”

“Stop.” Yes, if only she knew! If only! She sees the persona held aloft by a fractured and blackened soul with the misfortune of having a great hero as an ancestor. She sees the persona that bumbled into Whiterun, like an idiot, with a magic stick in a stupid impossible clay pot for a god-damned priestess. She sees the persona that turned from terror and faced a dragon simply to keep _her_ from dying immediately—

That particular thought halts me. _I acted to protect her from death_. I look at her, she with her eyes to the floor, chided. _I kept her from the Void_.

She is alive now because of me, and now, has been forced to rely upon me for her livelihood. She has been forced to… need me.

An image of blond hair, of dark eyes, flashes briefly before the eye of my mind. I can hear her from somewhere in the Void, and she is laughing at me. I feel it, the pain, the sudden prickling in my palms.

I rise from my bath and use a nearby piece of cloth to dry myself. “ _Fine_ ,” I say finally, and I refuse to look at her even as her eyes lower as well, “but on the condition that, hereafter, you will follow my orders to the letter. If I tell you to stay in one place, you will stay. You will not follow me until I return for you. Am I _very_ clear, Lydia?”

“Ah—” I kill off any argument with a glare. This conversation is finished. “Yes.”

“Then you are dismissed.”

 

* * *

 

  _3 Morning Star, 4E202_

 

The gates of Whiterun close behind us and the road stretches on ahead. As I prepare Shadowmere’s saddle, it comes to my attention that Lydia merely stands nearby, idle, and with a most indecisive expression upon her face. I ask: “Have you no horse?”

Her expression darkens. “No.”

“Mhmm,” I lowly hum to myself, more than to her, as I look about for the stablemaster. The man, Skulvar Sable-Hilt is his name, never seems to be nearby when Shadowmere occupies his stables.

Ever since the first time I boarded him here, several months ago, Skulvar has avoided my horse—and, therefore, me—religiously. I believe that it has something to do with Shadowmere’s eyes: they can be somewhat unsettling to the uninitiated. I notice, finally, that the man in question is watching me from his window, and I motion for him to approach.

He does so after an obvious hesitation. “Somethin’ I can help with, ma’am?” His eyes stray inadvertently to Shadowmere.

“I would like to purchase a horse.”

He lightens almost immediately. “You’re seekin’ a horse born under the light of the Divines?” He smiles and shakes my hands. “Bless you!” He lets go, but his enthusiasm does not cease. “There’s no place in this land for foul beasts and dark demons. We honest folk have enough troubles out here. Banish them, I say. Let ‘em wallow in their bedamned planes of Oblivion. Up here we folk need nothin’ but the grace of the good Divines. Bless you, I say. Bless you!”

He inhales with the obvious intent of saying more, but is stopped by Shadowmere’s audible snort and, I think, the bewildered expression upon my face. I say: “... Pardon?”

Lydia clears her throat. “It’s for me, Skulvar.”

Finally, it would seem, he notices my housecarl, who stands off to the side. “C-Captain Lydia?” With his eyes, he momentarily glances back and forth between us. “You know the woman with the demon horse?”

Another snort from Shadowmere. I look at him. _Haughty thing_ , I nearly laugh, _you_ are _a demon horse_. Lydia seems to bristle as well, somewhat. “This is the Dragonborn, Skulvar, and a Thane of Whiterun. I’ve been appointed as her housecarl. Will you sell to us or not?” It would seem that my companions are of a kindred spirit.

I begin to write out a note of credit. “The usual price is 1000 Septims, is it not?”

“Hey, wait a minute!” He stops me. “With all due respect, Thane, I can’t let one of my horses get cursed by that demon under your saddle. They’re too dear to me! I raised them myself, from when they were newly born, helpless foals—”

“Take this to the banker in Dragonsreach.” I cut him off, sick of hearing his voice. “I think 2000 gold pieces will change your mind.”

He holds the paper in his hands as if it were heavier than its actual weight. After a pause, he says: “Oh… no one… no one can argue with that much money…”

“Right.” I turn from him to watch Lydia as she chooses her horse: a sable-colored mare of good age and health. Stiff, she saddles it and soon enough—though still too long, given my growing impatience—we are off.

I am being monumentally foolish, I think, as I allow silence to reign semi-comfortably between us. We strike out west and follow the road. She is surely aware that the Throat of the World lies in the opposite direction. I bite the inside of my lip. What am I to do once we reach Dawnstar? Or worse, if she begins to ask too many questions? Already I can not, within this arrangement, stay for any prolonged amount of time in the Sanctuary. If my assessment of Lydia’s character is correct—and I am quite sure that it is—then she will inevitably come looking for me.

What to do? I steal a glance in her direction. She sits upon her horse, relaxed and nearly regal, eyes forward. I could change my mind, it is not too late. I could turn to her and order her to return to Whiterun. _Even after I just went to all that trouble?_ My eyes trace the patterns of her armor, recently polished, as they gleam in the light of the morning sun.

I could kill her. Once she and I reach the true wilderness, I could end her life swiftly and painlessly. I could then set her horse loose and let it run off. I could blame it on bandits.

A wooden smoking pipe swings from her belt. Really, truly, she walks, talks, dresses, and acts like a man. And behold how she follows me, how she does not ask why we are heading in the wrong direction. Cunning woman. She has known all along that I have next-to-no intention of ever going to High Hrothgar, as Balgruuf had called it, despite my having told him that I would go there immediately. Eventually she notices my observance of her and furtively returns my glance. A small smirk graces her lips. She seems to be relishing her victory in her own small way.

I kick my horse into a gallop and she follows suit. My indecision pokes at me still, but I place it aside for the time being.

 

* * *

 

 It is growing dusky by the time we reach Rorikstead. As the buildings of the town rise before us in the distance, we come to the mutual decision that it would be best for us to stay the night there. I am glad for this, as already I am wearied by this journey.

_Fortuna_ , however, proves capricious as ever.

An armed man approaches us a little ways off from our destination. He stands in the middle of the road, effectively halting us, and his heavy steel armor glints in the light of the dusk. He has a greatsword at his back and a bow in hand, drawn and taut, with an arrow aimed directly at my chest.

And not a guard in sight. Of course.

I rein in my horse a short distance from him and Lydia follows suit. “Good evening, ladies. Let’s keep this quick and simple: you’re both surrounded. Give us all your valuables and you’ll make it out of this alive.”

Oh my. I look over to my seething companion. Her hand is splayed over the sword at her side. She gives me a quick look, a signal of preparedness. I turn back toward the bandit. “Sir,” I say evenly, “if you do not promptly remove yourself from my presence, I can assure you that your imminent death will be neither speedy, nor painless.” Ah, warrior men. How many have I killed in my career? The thrill returns to me, but it is different. It is always different when I fight my fellow men, for they do not awaken fear in me.

I raise my hand and the magical fire prickles on my skin. He looks frustrated. “Boys! These girlies won’t cooperate!” Four more appear from behind the surrounding rocks and foliage, their various weapons drawn. The armored man, who is apparently their leader, fires at me. I hold out my hand and the arrow turns to ashes well before it reaches me.

Lydia springs off her horse with the force of the four winds, her sword and shield in hand. She charges our assailants like a wild bull, a battlecry on her lips, and in an instant she decapitates one, then plunges her sword into the belly of another. I am almost content simply to watch her in her bloody glory—for this is what it must be called—but necessity demands that I defend myself from the enraged leader, who springs upon me and swings his greatsword at my neck.

I burn him. There can be for him no more fitting an end.

The crust of his flesh falls to the dirt in a limp crunch. I feel no pity. Lydia’s battle song fills my ears as together we face the rest of them, our motions fluid and natural. My fires fit to her steel like the finest interlocking creations of the forge, surprisingly enough.

The spatters of blood which stain her skin lend to her a bloody glory which I, a harbinger of death in my own right, can only poeticize. Her sword, bright and slickened with the lives of these men, plunges sharply into the last of them and I hear his final, gurgling breath as he falls. She roughly puts a steel-shod foot on his chest and uses it as leverage to rip her blade back out, and then she cleans it on his clothes.

She stands tall and regards me upon finishing this task and does not bother to smear the blood from her face. I admit, the sight is… grotesquely attractive. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” I reply. I look toward the direction of Rorikstead, and note the sinking sun. I turn back and am relieved to see that both Shadowmere and Lydia’s horse are unscathed. I approach my horse and remove a small towel from one of the bags of his saddle. Unlike my stoic companion, I cannot comfortably ignore the filth that now covers my hair, face, and clothes. She seems to notice, although she says nothing, and soon we are off once more.

“I have ah… not often seen a mage in true man-to-man combat before,” she breaks the silence as we ride, “... only once, and she was powerful.”

Surely she notices my cold sweat, although I hope not. I know what she is referring to, and I thank Sithis once more, silently, for allowing me to escape with my anonymity. She hesitates for a moment. It seems, or so I would speculate, that she has just pushed herself into a difficult subject. It occurs to me, finally, that she must have been deeply affected by that incident. Perhaps it was that incident which led to her promotion to Captain of the Guard. Perhaps Cicero and I killed the last Captain.

“You are…” she continues after a beat, “also very powerful.” We are finally closing in on Rorikstead. “Are you a master?”

_Were they friends?_ “Yes.” My voice is inadvertently harsh and short.

 

* * *

 

  _4 Morning Star, 4E202_

 

The bed, I admit, is not as uncomfortable or as foul as I had feared it might be. Normally I have an issue with these inn beds of Skyrim: they are often unkempt, often of an unpleasant odor, and far too often, infested. The beds of the Imperial City would shock some of these innkeepers with their cleanliness.

I linger upon the furs. I miss my own bed, which the adepts keep pristine for me. This is likely why, I muse, my sleep has been so restless. It had been dreamless sleep, yes, but somehow… dogged. I raise my head after a few moments and notice, finally, that Lydia is not in the room. Her armor, pack, and bedroll are neatly stowed in the corner she had chosen for herself.

How peculiar, and how unlike her… or so I had presumed from my initial analysis of her.

I rise and dress myself. I have invested in some finer robes since finding myself constantly in the company of my housecarl. I look at my reflection in the small mirror beside the bed. If I must wear something other than my dearest black and red, then I will wear Aestus blue. The color both matches and accentuates my eyes, after all.

I pull on the handle of the door, thinking to hunt down my wayward housecarl, but I move no further than the threshold before finding myself face-to-face—and, it would seem, front-to-front—with my very quarry. I happen to inhale just as our upper bodies touch, briefly, together. I detect the dust of the fields, pine trees, and that unique fragrance which follows her: that of ice, of snow, of something spiced. She backs away from me quickly, stammering something, though not before I feel a single startled breath upon my cheeks.

“Running away, already?” I tease, leaning against the doorframe.

“Uh… no, of course not.” She gathers herself. “Thought I’d find you a proper meal, maybe something better than just bread and cheese, but the cook isn’t up yet… And uh, well, I think my cooking would hurt you more than help you.” She lets out a short, awkward laugh, and I find I cannot resist giving her an indulgent smile. “Oh well, I tried.”

I move to the empty cooking pot hooked over the building’s central hearth. Looking around the room, I notice various vegetable, cheeses, and other ingredients. I go behind the innkeeper’s counter, much to Lydia’s vocalized disapproval, and recover a whole wheel of Eidar cheese. A recipe comes to mind, a personal favorite I have not made in ages. “Have you ever had Elsweyr fondue?” I ask as I turn to her.

“Elsweyr… what?” She asks as I return to my room and retrieve a small pouch of moon sugar from my satchel. “With _that_?” She points to the pouch in my hand with an obvious suspicion.

“It is not illegal as a cooking and alchemy ingredient. The College of Winterhold saw to that,” I say with a smirk as I begin arranging ingredients around the cooking pot. “Moon sugar is very useful to mages, and is perfectly harmless when used responsibly. Be a dear and fetch me some water, will you?”

She does so, grumbling “I _know_ that,” under her breath. I take a loaf of bread and begin slicing it while I wait for the water to boil. I have not added very much to the pot, only enough to make it more of a soup and less of a slop, as my mother had preferred it. Lydia leans against the counter as I work and gives me an odd look. “But you’re a noble, aren’t you? Why do you know how to cook? Isn’t a lady supposed to do… well… nothing? Or find a husband or something?”

“The Patriarch—that is, Aestus the Fire Hand—had a saying: _All knowledge is worth having_. Whether it be to cook or to work a blade or spell, my mother took this saying rather seriously,” I explain to her, admittedly somewhat amused by my willingness to do so.

I melt the cheese and add a whole bottle of ale, ignoring a snide “We’re drinking already?” from my companion. She pulls up a chair, but seems restless. She fidgets. “So… do you have a husband, then?”

_Ah_. Her twitchy behavior makes sense now: she is nervous.

She asks her question as casually as she is able—which is not very casual at all—and sits with her arms crossed, fingers tapping, likely fearing that she has overstepped some arbitrary boundary in her curiosity. In truth, she has… after a sense. She is the only inhabitant of this country who has ever gone to the trouble of asking me personal questions. If any of my other underlings were to have such audacity, I think I would respond by cutting the conversation short rather quickly… with my knife.

If only she knew. “No.”

“Oh… I’m surprised,” she says without looking at me.

I add the moon sugar and stir. There is little harm in returning her question, I suppose. “And you?”

“Hmm,” she hesitates with a hum. “I have never… uh… preferred men.” Well, of course not. I can tell just by observing her. “I don’t have a wife, though. Never really found the right woman.”

“Is that so?” My tone of voice rises, immediately, to that which would goad her. “And do tell, what _does_ our Lydia prefer in a woman?”

The color of her face, in this moment, would make even roses jealous. I am about to ask what brought this reaction on, this endearing blush and stutter, when a door opens and in walks the young son of the innkeeper. A young man between eighteen and twenty, he is polite and cheerful, though his questions about our battle last evening had been somewhat overzealous.

He approaches near enough to peer into the cooking pot. “What are you cooking, ma’am? It smells fantastic.”

“Elsweyr fondue,” I reply, and then reach into a pocket to retrieve ten Septims. “This should account for the ingredients I have used.” I pour two bowls for Lydia and myself, and then, noticing that there is enough for three, I give the young man a bowl as well.

“My thanks,” he says as he sits down with us. “I take it you’re both leaving today, then?”

“Yes.” My mind has already turned to the dilemma of yesterday. I cannot linger in Dawnstar now that Lydia has insisted she must remain at my side. I watch her from a corner of my vision: I want to tell her that she should not eat so quickly, as it is bad for digestion.

I should just kill her, end her quickly. She would feel no pain.

I watch her hands as she rips her bread apart, as she licks her fingers. How uncouth.

And if I do not kill her, if I keep her alive, then what am I to do with her? Where should I go?

The innkeeper’s son sighs audibly. “I wish I could just come and go as I please. You have no idea how much I want to be an adventurer like you.”

“Then go be one,” says Lydia. Her bowl is empty, spotless. I am surprised she has not licked it clean. She eats like a starving dog.

Has no one ever taught her proper manners?

“My father won’t let me,” he grumbles. “Says it’s too dangerous, that he wants me to stay here and work the farm. And even if he did let me be an adventurer, we couldn’t afford to buy armor.” He dips his bread in the bowl and takes a bite. “I can’t stand the thought of being trapped in this village for the rest of my days.”

“The world is a dangerous place, Erik. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” says his father, the innkeeper, as he enters the main room.

“But father—”

“And what’s more, you’ve got no armor. We can’t afford it.”

The son, Erik, hangs his head. I rise, a certain memory coming to mind: a memory of a young scholar-mage with a similar desire to escape some preordained course of life. Driven by impulse, for this is what it must be, the note of credit for 500 Septims is already written and in the father’s hands before I realize what I have actually done. “Buy him some armor.” The words come without forethought. “Let him live as he chooses.”

“This kind of money…” The father bows to me. “You would give this much gold just to protect the life of a stranger? You are… very kind.” I feel a sudden… twinge, but my face remains neutral. “Erik, I…” Looking at his son, he gestures toward his office. “Let’s go have a talk.”

As he rises from the table, Erik says _Thank you_ to me with a silent movement of the lips.

I turn to Lydia. The expression on her face is one I cannot describe, though it is similar to that which she expressed upon learning my name.

“We take our leave,” I snap, and return to my room to retrieve my belongings, my movements violent.

She scrambles in after me, though she asks no questions, and is armored and ready for travel within minutes. A fire burns somewhere in the pit of my stomach. _Why_ does she not ask? She has the nerve to ask about my marital situation, but not where we are headed, nor why I am suddenly so furious.

The thought redoubles my anger. I storm out of the inn with her close behind. I will have no more of this… this _influence_ that her presence makes upon me. She dies tonight.

I mount Shadowmere and kick his flanks. I bolt off in the direction of Dawnstar, my home, my Family. I will kill her. I will make it painless and quick. I hear her behind me, keeping relative pace, though I do not look back at her. I do not wish to see her face. After her, I will kill ten men. And then Cicero.

“Amara!” I hear her call. By Sithis, she is the only Nord who knows my name. She is the only emotional, ill-mannered, brutish, violent, simple, honorable, loyal, honest Nord who knows it. “Amara, stop!”

Skulvar Sable-Hilt called Shadowmere a demon horse. Well, he is such. He can run for leagues without fatigue, which is much more than can be said of Lydia’s horse… _Which I bought for her_. I grit my teeth. Damn it all!

I slow Shadowmere down and eventually come to a stop. Lydia pulls up beside me. “We’ll run our horses into the ground at this pace!” She admonishes. Her mare is panting beneath her.

I say nothing.

She looks at me for a moment, then dismounts and leads her horse to the river that runs alongside the road. She strokes the mare’s mane as it dips its head to drink. I watch her. Her touch is so gentle, so much so that it seems completely uncharacteristic of her. Her entire countenance expresses such genuine empathy for the dumb beast.

By his own volition, Shadowmere begins to move toward the river. I, too, dismount once he stops before it, and give him space to drink. I look at Lydia. She looks back at me. Tentatively, she takes a small step toward me, close enough to reach a hand out and rest it on my upper arm, close enough to give me the same empathy that she sees fit to give to her horse. I stare despite my rising chagrin. She is kind without knowing the problem.

I say nothing. And she, with her hand so boldly upon my arm, says a single phrase to me. She could have said a million other things, she could have asked a million other questions, but she simply looks at me, her green eyes lovely and bright, and says: “It’s okay.”

I say nothing.

 

* * *

 

  _Author’s note:_

 

_Amara uses the term “Fortuna” in this chapter. She was the Roman goddess of fortune (actually, she’s kind of like the real-world equivalent of Nocturnal… minus the whole shadows-and-thieves thing). In this story it’s used more like a figure of speech common to Imperials._


	5. Laid to Rest, Part 1

**Chapter 5: Laid to Rest, Part 1**

 

_6 Morning Star, 4E202_

 

Morthal. Again, we have decided to stay the night here. Hopefully we will be in Dawnstar by tomorrow evening.

Lydia lives yet.

The inn's central hearth crackles. The last time I sat in this chair I had been planning the death of a certain Lurbuk the Bard. Now, I have thrice granted mercy to another whom ought to die: once from a dragon, and twice from my own hand. She sits in a chair near to mine and smokes from her pipe.

I have said very little to her over the course of the day. Our journey had been uneventful but for an attack from a sabre cat, which Lydia had dispatched quickly. Its fine pelt is now wrapped up inside Shadowmere's saddle bag. She sits quietly. She allows me to stew in my silence and she asks no questions. In this respect she is more tolerable and well-mannered than the initiates. I hang my head ruefully.  _If only._

I notice her watching me. By no means do I interpret her silence as stupidity. I see the thoughts churning behind those green eyes. I see the burgeoning questions… or at least, I think I do. Our gazes touch briefly. My earlier anger and frustration have not so much waned, as they have simply wearied themselves.

Yes, that is an apt description: I do not even have the energy to be angry anymore. I would much prefer to lock it away somewhere, perhaps even to have my affable, insufferable companion bear the burden for me. Yes. My silence will grow heavy upon her, and she will lash at  _me_ , instead of I at her. I hope.

The chill is nigh unbearable this evening. I sink further into my cloak and reflect, idly, upon the warm summers of Cyrodiil. The ignorant children of Skyrim know not their loss. Such memories: of flowers, of sunshine—by the gods—I could swear they belong to another soul entirely.

The smoke forms cloudy rings above her hair. As I watch her, I suppose that even the stoic Lydia must lounge every so often. I surmise, also, that the cold affects her only very little, if at all. Her posture conveys such a message. She is comfortable, relaxed. Alive. A familiar-and-strange sensation, one I have not felt in a very, very long time, bubbles within me, travels up my spine, as I watch her breathe her own fire. I watch the fire, the smoke, suffuse her face with pleasure, with languor. I want to laugh. Not two hours ago was I riding behind her, my dagger in hand, ready to toss it through her neck.

What stayed my hand, I could never say.

Well—I could never say, that is, before this moment, perhaps. She exhales in smoky coils. I am perversely attracted to this sight of her suffusing herself with fire, my favored element.  _Perversely_. A small, strange smile pulls at my lips. I am not a woman prone to feelings of shame.

I hear the scrape of a chair as the innkeeper, Jonna, pulls up and sits herself next to me. Lydia watches from the corner of an eye. Her clothes and the brief, unpleasant draft of cold air bespeak her having just entered the inn. "Didn't expect to see you here again, miss, not with all that ruckus about the bard." Her tone lies somewhere between neutral and amiable. I can not tell. "Good to see that young girls these days have a bit more steel in their bones. Have you eaten?"

"Somewhat, yes." My appetite has not been so agreeable.

"The bard?" Lydia says, and my attention returns to her quickly, smoldering like a burn on the skin.  _Do not ask, Lydia. Do not._

"Ah… yeah." Jonna is just as uncomfortable with the subject. "An incident here some time ago. Some awful bard was found in the inn with a knife in his throat." She shifts in her seat. "Still don't know who did it."

I say nothing.

The air becomes heavier. Lydia murmurs some reply, though I do not hear it. My thoughts have somehow returned themselves to green summers. I and another small girl—I cannot remember her name—would sit in the long grass and she would braid my hair.  _It is like fire_ , she would always say, laughing,  _are you burning?_  She was pretty, this little girl: blond, and so tall for her age…

Was she a servant's daughter, perhaps? It was so long ago.

"We've got bigger problems these days, though." Their conversation filters back to me, slowly, undesired: "I've heard tell of dragons coming from the East. Is it true?"

"True as I'm sitting here before you." Lydia's voice washes over me. My reverie breaks and we meet eyes. I beg her, silently, to say nothing further of the matter. I do not think she comprehends. "I saw one with my own eyes. I was there when a dragon attacked Whiterun."

"Gods be merciful!" Jonna leans forward somewhat. "And you're still alive!"

"With great thanks to my Thane, here." She gestures to me with a smile.  _God-damned Nords_.

Jonna turns to me, then, bewildered. " _You_ , miss? You killed a dragon…  _and_  you're a Thane?" She pauses in short recollection. "That goes to say, I suppose we all have our better and worse days. It's just—just when I saw you on the day of that murder, you were so shaken upon seeing the blood…"

Yes, it is an act meant to divert suspicion from myself. Truthfully, on that day, I had been trying to conceal my mirth at how absurdly easy that kill had been. I feel Lydia's eyes on me. I berate myself for my sudden weakness and rally my energies.

The actress, and her honeyed tongue, thanks be to Sithis, comes back to the front of my thoughts. "I just felt so strongly for the man, Jonna." She seems to brighten upon learning that I have remembered her name. "Honorable battle and defense of oneself, those are matters quite separate from the matter of cold-blooded murder." A short pause for effect. "Of course such an awful sight would rattle my senses."

"Of course, miss—or should I say Thane?—of course it would." Her reply is pregnant with newfound affection, and possibly deference, for me. She turns back to Lydia. "I take it you're the Lady's housecarl, then?" She rises. "I'll fetch you both a few mugs of ale. They're on the house."

Lydia and I are left staring at one another as she walks away. Perhaps she is yet forming questions, though still she asks me nothing of the sort. No, instead she shows me a small smile. "You seems to have… many layers, Amara." Then the subject simply disappears, as if by magic, when she holds her pipe out to me. I take it. "So you do indulge, then?"

"On occasion," I say as I bring the pipe to my lips and inhale. The smoke is heavy, warm, and familiar. "I have read that, in some cultures, to share a pipe is to forge peace between individuals, and sometimes even whole tribes."

"Ah, well, I don't know about that," she replies, "but I do know that those are some of the finest leaves in Skyrim." She folds one leg, resting an ankle on the opposite knee. A small, attractive smirk graces her face. "If I have to have an indulgent habit, you see, then it has to be indulged to the best of my ability."

"A fine philosophy." The smirk is infectious. Certainly I, of all people, can agree with such an  _agreeable_  point. The leaves are, in fact, of excellent quality. "And yet you consume such fine product on a Captain's salary? You must have been sleeping with the apothecary." I laugh and, my head resting in one hand, I lean against the arm of the chair. I inhale once more and I am swept by a feeling of calm.

She laughs too. "Who said that I buy it?"

"You  _grow_  it?" My expression must be priceless.

"Call it a hobby."

"And call me amazed," I say before inhaling the smoke once more. I exhale slowly and watch the resulting cloud as it disperses. "Ah, but who tends the farmer's crop in her absence?"

Lydia smiles and leans forward, her green eyes brilliant. Our gazes locked, she whispers: "The apothecary."

Our resulting peal of laughter seems to shake the very beams of the inn. Such a quick change, that, and I think, how easily does her company both rattle and inflate my mood. The smoke twirls about us in a wafting, atmospheric dance. She watches me, her posture at ease, and somehow I feel a fine, cool drop of absolution from my voiceless struggle.

Jonna returns shortly afterward with our drinks and sits back down in our much-lightened company. "You know, speaking of murders and tragedies," she says, completely oblivious to the evident  _lack_  of need for such conversation, "we have another big situation going on right now. Have you seen the remains of Hroggar's house yet? Quite the eyesore, that."

"I have," Lydia replies. "It's that burnt-up husk, right? The one just nearby."

"Yes, that one. The story points to some foul deeds so far. The house burned down with Hroggar's wife and child still inside. Their graves were barely dug before he went and pledged his love to Alva—she lives a shorts ways down. Now they're shacked up and he acts as if his family had never existed. It's a strange affair, and one that puts him in a real bad position, if you ask me." She takes a hearty drink from her mug.

I sip from mine, though with distaste, as I dislike ale as a beverage, and listen while she and Lydia further discuss the gossip surrounding the matter. Neither I, nor my kin, are responsible for this particular murder. I would know.

Although, if the gossip over this man, Hroggar, does prove to be accurate… I may well have a new job in store for him. I smirk. The Dark Brotherhood can always make use of a heartless killer. I rise. "Where is this house?" I ask, with the intent of seeing the man's handiwork.

"I saw it earlier when I went outside to gather some wood for the fire," Lydia replies. "It's a short walk from here."

"Show me," I say with the air of command natural to me. I tie my cloak, put on a thick pair of gloves, and give Lydia her pipe. She stows it quickly and dashes into our room and, in a few short moments, returns fully armored and ready to go. We nod our thanks to the innkeeper and Lydia leads me to the apparent scene of the crime.

My assessment is quick. This was not caused by a magical fire, as I had hoped. The facade is mostly burnt away and the interior stands stark and visible under the light of the moon. A light snow is falling. The scene is eerily quiet, and very cold. I climb the rickety remains of the steps, Lydia in tow. I am loathe to make an attempt to put my weight on what little remains of the floor: very likely, I might fall right through.

The air carries an odd smell… it is familiar, though I cannot place it exactly. It is reminiscent of the smell of Aetherius, which only those persons magically-inclined might be able to detect. I look about. His work is sloppy. I can tell from this burned room that he lacks a sense of self-preservation. His only redeeming quality, it would seem, is his apparent ruthlessness. He will have much to learn.

The smell begins to disturb me. With a certainty it is the smell of an otherworld: one which I, mage, Listener, or otherwise, would prefer not to encounter. I turn and make to descend the stairs, but I am halted by the sudden sound of humming. It is a light sound, airy. High-pitched. It surrounds me. Lydia, alarmed at the expression on my face, draws her sword and attempts to climb the stairs. I halt her with a hand on her shoulder.

The temperature drops further. The humming grows louder. Yes, I  _do_  know this smell… how could I have forgotten it? "Lydia," I whisper, "have you ever seen a ghost?"

"A  _what_?" She exclaims, yet also in a whisper. I turn back round, and there it is: the cold white avatar of a little girl. It hums to itself, yet watches us. "What are you staring at?" I hear Lydia say from behind me. "I don't see anything."

My hand still on her armored shoulder, I guide her up the stairs, still wary of our combined weight on the burned wood. "I ask for your trust," I say, as I place a hand before her eyes.

"Until death."

I am stopped for the briefest of moments by a rush of… something. Perhaps it is thought, or emotion. I cannot say, but the present situation forces me to decide that I must contemplate it later. I cast a small burst of Illusion magic, which allows Lydia to perceive what I do. She gasps when I lower my hand, and holds her sword doubly tight.

I return my attention to the ghost, which has moved somewhat closer. "Who are you, child?"

"Helgi," it says, "but father says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers. Are you a stranger?"

_Ghosts_ , my old Breton master would say,  _are but the lost children of Aetherius. By some means they go neither to Oblivion, nor to the realm of magic. They are tethered here, and like lost children, they rarely know where they are, or what to think._

I muse that the ghost believes it is still alive. It still believes that it is the child, Helgi.

" _It speaks!_ " Lydia whispers emphatically. She edges closer to me, sword still raised. "It's the little girl! The little girl who—" My gloved hand swiftly covers her mouth.

" _Do not_  say that." I chide her, "Definitely not in our best interest."

"Are you a stranger?" The ghost asks Lydia. My companion seems frozen to her spot… I take it she does not have much of an affinity toward spirits.

_Do not leave the questions of the spirits unanswered_ , the Breton's advice rings in my ears,  _or they may haunt you_. "We are not strangers. Is Hroggar your father?"

It smiles. "You know him? He made my favorite dolly, but I can't find her. Are you sure you aren't a stranger?" Its latter question is once again directed at Lydia.

" _Answer_ ," I hiss.

"Y-Yes," she stammers, ever so slightly, "we're friends." I cannot discern the emotion behind her tone of voice. Her face, however, when I shift my sights from the apparition to my companion, clearly expresses what can only be called heartbreak. "Little girl… what happened here?" Her sword is yet raised high, but I can hear and see it now: her stammer, her hesitance, her expression… these things are not arisen out of fear; no, they arise out of a deep and empathetic sadness.

"The smoke woke me up," the specter says, "I was hot and I was scared, so I hid… Then it got cold and dark. I'm not scared anymore, but I'm lonely. Will you play with me?"

Lydia coughs. I think… she does this in order to mask a show of emotion. She takes a small step forward. Her armored boot causes the brittle wood to creak loudly. "Tell us… tell us who started the fire, and we'll play with you."

_We?_

"Okay!" It replies brightly. "We'll play hide-and-seek, and then I'll tell you. And it's night time, so the other one can play too!"

"Who is the other one?" I ask, wary of more ghosts.

"I can't tell you, she might hear me! She's so close. If you can find me first, I can tell you." The spirit then grins at us and fades away.

"Wait!" Lydia cries, just as I turn to her in an attempt to scold her for involving us unnecessarily. She runs forward before I can catch her, and in an instant she falls through the crumbling floor, her weight and the violence of her movements proving too much for the charred supports. The sounds of her sputtering in the water are followed by a very loud and colorful oath.

I creep up close enough to see that she is soaked to the bone and bleeding from the side of her head. She is on her stomach and leaning on the elbow of one arm, surrounded by burnt and broken wooden floorboards.

"Get up, Lydia," I say and hold out a hand. She reaches for it, but reaches in the wrong direction. Then her arm drops. She slumps forward. Alarmed, I call for the guards and jump into the hole in the floor in order to pull her up, but she is too heavy. All I can manage is to roll her to her side and to keep her face out of the water. Blood trickles from her head and down her collar.

Three guards come running, and together we haul Lydia out of the ruins of the house and back to the inn. Jonna, upon seeing her, runs to fetch a bucket of hot water and rags for her head. I and a female guard take to removing Lydia's soaked armor once we have laid her on top of the bed. She is shivering violently. I finally realize that my feet, too, are freezing from my having jumped into the frigid water under the house.

When we finish with her armor, Jonna lays a hot rag on her head and starts cleaning her wound, while I remove her tunic, breeches, and smallclothes, all soaked and cold. I then throw several blankets on top of her and cast a strong fire spell upon the hearth.

She continues to shiver. I watch her as I take off my boots and switch my socks for a new pair. "M'Lady," Jonna says, "she can't make enough heat under those blankets all by herself. She needs another warm body."

"I know," I reply, unfastening my robes. "Please leave me with her."

She nods and rises. "I'll go heat up some spiced wine for you," she says as she exits the room.

Stripped to my smallclothes, I am just coming under the covers and pulling her toward me when she begins to slowly, then fully, regain consciousness. I arrange myself against her so that my skin touches her skin wherever possible. She is freezing. Her shivering subsides gradually, and by the time it stops, she is fully conscious, and fully aware of our current position. I am sure that I must explain very little to her.

A tentative hand reaches up and rounds itself about my shoulder. Though borne out of necessity, the intimacy of the situation is, of course, apparent to us both. Admittedly, I am at a loss for words. Not even the actress can find the audacity to speak. This moment is too quiet, too… reverent. Our fronts are pressed together under a veritable mountain of blankets, a fire crackles, her head rests under mine, further down on the large pillow, and her scent, in combination with the scent of the fire, suffuses me. Finally warm, she now only moves very little, shifting just once for comfort.

She holds fast to me, and she says nothing. Perhaps she, too, cannot find it within herself to speak.

This is a heady concoction, truly, and my thoughts tumble one over the other. This disarrange makes it difficult for me to separate myself from the situation, or to distinguish my intentions between life-saving and hedonism…

_Life-saving_. That concept, again.

She blinks, and I feel the flutter of her eyelashes against the skin of my collarbone. I wonder, idly, what thoughts might be tossing about in her mind. I sense that she is forcing her breath to come slow and steady: it seems somewhat too stiff to be natural. It puffs warm over my skin in controlled bursts, and I muse that, among those mysterious thoughts of hers, she must be fighting a battle against nervousness. I cannot lie to myself: I, too, am experiencing that same kind of heated blood. I suppose it is only natural.

Then my introspections flutter and land upon those bound and tortured thoughts of Astrid. It must also be inevitable. In the days just before the end, she came to me. In the silence and secrecy of my room, near to that of the Night Mother, she told me that she had  _to know_ …  _before it's too late_ , she said; only later did I come to understand the meaning behind her words. But in that moment, when Astrid kissed me, when she disrobed me, when she threw me down and took me, I could ponder nothing. She had done all those things which I had heretofore only fantasized of. She was not my first, but I remember my decision, as I was basking in the afterglow, that I would make her my last.

Of course, matters did not unfold as I had hoped.

But hindsight reveals my mistakes to me. Never have I been so willing, so… eager to  _rut_ , as it were. It is unlike me to seek comfort in human closeness, whether genuine and sweet, or carnal and possessive, as had been my relationship with Astrid. But I wanted her. Badly.

That night when she came to me, our breathing had scarcely returned to normal before she stood, clothed herself, and left me lying there. Confusion turned to hurt, and then, when she betrayed me, hurt turned to anger. When she died, that anger turned to grief, but I have pondered this many times.

Lydia, slowly, presses a little closer. I feel the tips of her breasts brush against my belly. A small, gentle tug on my scalp tells me that she has pulled a strand of my hair between her fingers, and now she plays with it. I am nearly overwhelmed at the scent of tundra and wood-smoke. My fearless, foolish Lydia, you will undo me again and again.

My eyes flutter closed, and in a low voice, a whisper, she says: "Your hair is like fire. I've never seen anything like it before." She pauses, breathing in that same forced and controlled way, then adds: "It's so beautiful."

Her previous inhibitions seem so… released. In her voice and in her touch, she is so tender. My eyes open again, but the images behind them hold steadfast. I feel myself choked by them. I lean up on one elbow and look down at her. Her eyes, so green, meet mine. "You hit your head," I say, forcing my voice to remain even. "You should rest."

A Nord to the end, she allows her emotions to be apparent on her face. Her eyebrows come together slightly, her eyes narrow just a little. She studies me. Then she reaches up to where her head had been wounded. She knows her place. "Thank you, my Thane," she says, looking at the ceiling.

"Ah, of course…" The words feel strange. This bed feels strange. By Sithis, my own skin feels strange. I move away from her and rise, taking my robe and re-fastening it. I feel a strong desire to go outside.

"Amara…" She says my name softly, with a tone I have never heard from her before. We look at one another. She is sitting up, covering her modesty with one of the blankets. Now this, I think, is an odd image of Lydia. She looks… vulnerable.

I do not like this image. Something in me cries out against it, hates it. I feel such a need to run from it. It is the same as before: her submission perturbs me, and now, her vulnerability confuses me. I have watched her battle. I have seen how she interacts with other people: she is strong, gathered; generally affable, but deadly. So what is this tenderness? Such a persona should have no place with her.

And yet, there it is: her fury-inspiring visage of naked subjection. And this is not subordination out of fear, but out of respect, perhaps even genuine affection. The thought occurs to me, then.  _Yes._  I search her face. It still is not fear… it is affection. This expression is one of hurt. She had held me, played with my hair. She sought intimacy.  _With me_.

So she truly does not see the person before her: the Listener, the King-killer, the force behind the slaughter at Dragonsreach. I wonder what her reaction would be, were she to gain the knowledge.

"Amara…" she repeats, "forgive me."

Her words echo between my ears. I approach her side of the bed and reach out a hand, resting it where she had wounded herself. I concentrate on Danica's teachings.  _Heal her_ , I say to myself,  _I wish her to be healed_. A light, small but warm, emanates from my hand. She leans into my palm, eyes closed, as an expression of content takes over her features. The remnants of the wound disappear, as does the rest of the dried blood. She looks up at me. "Come on," I say to her, "get dressed. We have to go find your ghost."

 

* * *

 

_7 Morning Star, 4E202_

 

Because Lydia's armor is still soaked, she must wear her normal clothing. Jonna was kind enough to lend her a vest of chain mail, but she goes otherwise unprotected. She stands behind me, her hand on the sword at her hip, as I inspect the ruins of the house once more. The midnight hour has already passed, and the moon is high in the sky.

I inhale deeply, seeking the smell of Aetherius. It is faint, but detectable. The apparition must be elsewhere, but still nearby. "So… you can…  _smell_  ghosts?" Lydia's voice, although relatively quiet, sounds incredulous.

"Yes," I reply, "it is a symptom of being magically-inclined. Here." I hold my hand out and cast the perception spell. "Did you not detect it before?"

She, too, inhales deeply. She puts her other hand on her hip and leans on one leg, head up, seemingly in thought. "It's sort of like… Well…" Her head rolls to the side. "Yes, it's the same as before. I just didn't know what it was. It reminds me of… something… Oh…" She shifts her posture and crosses her arms. "I can't place it!"

"I welcome you to my lifelong struggle," I say wryly. I turn my head to the West. "I believe we should go in that direction." I gesture with a nod.

"Lead the way," she replies, and we are off. "Maybe it's something like those juniper berries that grow up in The Rift?" She thinks aloud as we walk. "No, well, maybe. It's spicier. It's… hmm." She strides alongside me, arms crossed. "It's more like a kind of tree bark… The Jarl had it on his dessert once… Very rare… Maybe that's why Farengar couldn't eat it… What did the chef call it?" We are coming near to the town graveyard, and I notice a strange presence. It is… sinister. We enter the area, and Lydia suddenly snaps her fingers and says: "Oh! Cinnamon!"

It attacks. A disheveled humanoid, pale as death and torn and filthy, springs out from behind the mound of an opened grave and straight at me. I roll out of the way and rise quickly, flames in my palms, to see Lydia, sword swinging, battling the monster. It swipes at her with its claws, making some awful, otherworldly noise, but it misses each time. With a swipe she cuts off its left hand and it screams wildly.

I place my hands together and quickly charge a fire spell. "Back, Lydia!" I shout. She jumps back just as I release, and my fireball hits the monster squarely in the head, knocking it backward several feet. It does not rise again.

The head continues to burn until nothing but a skull remains. I approach the body. The exposed teeth reveal a set of vampire fangs. Ah, I muse, no wonder the fire spell was so effective.

Lydia comes up behind me. "A vampire!" She exclaims. "I haven't seen one in ages. Not since we had a small outbreak in Whiterun, a few years back."

I cross my arms under my cloak. "Well, I would like to know why one is prowling around a graveyard, and not in the town, where it might feed."

"Hmm…" Lydia hums in agreement.

The body and the snow around us suddenly begin to grow lighter. I look to my left and see a man approaching, holding a torch. When the light finally illuminates the body enough to make it more recognizable to him, he rushes over shouting: "Laelette! Laelette!" He comes close enough to see the mangled body, the skull with its fangs. "Oh, Laelette, she's… she's a vampire!" He sinks to his knees beside the body. "Laelette… my wife is dead…" He puts his face in his hands.

"Your… wife?" I say to him.

He looks up at me, his eyes bleary. "Yes. I recognize her clothing, torn as it is." His face goes back into his hands. "You… you did the right thing but… by the gods… Laelette… I thought she'd left to join the Stormcloaks… Oh, my poor Laelette…"

"Did you follow us?" Lydia says to him in that tone of authority so fitting to her.

"Yes I… I noticed you snooping around, so I thought I'd follow you. But I didn't think I would find this!"

"Why are you so interested, then?" I ask.

"Laelette was acting strangely before she left," he replies, "She was suddenly spending so much time around Alva! And then the two of them began mingling with Hroggar… And then she disappeared and his house burned down! I didn't know what it all could mean…" He stands. "You know, just a week earlier, she despised Alva. Then it all suddenly changed. And on the night she disappeared, she was supposed to meet her… I never even got to say goodbye…"

"I think…" I begin slowly, arms still crossed, "that they did, in fact, meet."

His brow furrows. "You mean… Alva might be…? Ye gods! You think that Alva is a vampire?"

"It is a possibility we cannot ignore," I reply.

"N-No. You're wrong. You must be wrong. Laelette must have met her fate out in the marsh. I refuse to believe Alva had anything to do with this. There is no way you can prove it to the Jarl." He holds his torch over the body and gives it a long look. "I'll be back with a burial party." Then he leaves.

I watch him go. " _God-damned Nords_ …" I mutter to myself.

"What?" Lydia says beside me.

I look over at her, realizing my mistake. "Oh, ah…"

"You found me!" A little voice says from behind us, from the dug-up coffin. We approach it cautiously. "Laelette was trying to find me too, but I'm glad you found me first." The voice pauses for a moment, then continues: "Laelette was told to burn mommy and me, but she didn't want to. She wanted to play with me, forever and ever. She kissed me on the neck, and I got so cold that the fire didn't even hurt. Laelette thought that she could take me and keep me, but she can't… I'm all burned up. I'm tired… I'm gonna sleep for a little while now." The voice, and its accompanying presence, fades.

Lydia is quiet. I am lost in thought. So this man, Hroggar, is likely of very little value to me… He is more-than-likely just a living pawn to the vampire called Alva. Additionally, it is not my business if there are vampires in Morthal. Quite honestly, I am more content to leave them to their devices. I think, for a moment, on Babette. She would want to seek an alliance with their coven, if anything… or, at least, an acknowledgement of friendly relations. I sigh audibly. I cannot do that with Lydia around.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. It is my housecarl, apparently seeking to comfort me. "I know," she says, "it's heartbreaking." Her expression says as much.

"Yes…" I rearrange my own expression to one of sadness. "Yes." I need to write a letter.

"We should go to the Jarl."

"Pardon?" I say, broken out of my reverie.

"We need to see the Jarl."

"Err…" How to evade this? "Not at this hour, for one thing." That should at least give me time to compose my letter. "And for another, half of our evidence comes from a ghost. I doubt the Jarl will be very receptive."

"We still have to try." She is adamant. "It's the right thing to do."

Well,  _the right thing to do_  is neither my concern, nor is it good business for me.

We make our way back to the inn. Soon after entering, I am sitting in the main room with a cup of tea, paper, pen, and ink. I am writing a letter to Babette in the cipher of the Dark Brotherhood. Lydia is in our shared bedroom, sharpening her sword.

A Morthal guard enters the building. From the corner of my eye, I watch him with relative disinterest as he goes to the bar and orders a mug of mead. My disinterest quickly dissipates, however, when he comes to sit next to me and, in a low voice, says: "Sithis guide your blade, Listener…"

I smile as I continue writing. "And yours, my dear Pheletes. Your timing is impeccable."

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, as the sun is rising over the horizon and Lydia is asleep, I creep out of the inn to meet Pheletes at the town gate. He is re-attired in the light, form-fitting black armor of a Brotherhood courier. He bows to me as I approach him.

I give him the letter. "You will take this to Babette, with utmost haste."

"It shall be done, my Listener." He then pauses for a moment, hesitant.

I scowl. "Why do I not see your retreating back, boy?"

"Listener," he bows again, "your presence is greatly missed in the Sanctuary. Shall I report to Nazir that you and the new initiate will be returning soon?"

_New… initiate?_  "Of whom do you speak?"

"Your companion, my Listener. Shall I report that she is to join us?"

For a moment, I am silent. Then: "No." Mother, guide me. "You shall report that she is currently under my personal protection. She is a matter of interest to the Dark Brotherhood. She is  _not_ to be harmed, am I understood?"

"Perfectly, my Listener."

"And I shall return as soon as I am able."

"Understood, my Listener."

"Now begone with you. Sithis guide you."

"And you, my Listener," he says as he bows once more, then he runs off.

I stand and watch him as he disappears over the horizon, and I wonder how many other undercover initiates may have seen Lydia and myself. It is a general policy among us not to associate with one another outside of the Sanctuary… so I can only guess at the number. Of course Pheletes, as a courier, is an exception to that policy.

They all seem to have presumed that I intend for Lydia to join our ranks. I share a private, bittersweet laugh with myself. Yes, the idea… For the briefest of moments, I allow myself to play with it: I imagine her in our sleek black-and-red uniform, dark and deadly, a true asset to the soldiers of Sithis. She would not be a silent killer. No, she would be a pillar of brute force, a great, unstoppable, furious hellstorm. I shiver. The idea is far too tantalizing, and even more uncanny. I should not allow myself to fantasize such impossibilities.

After everything, she is, and always shall be, a righteous woman.

Nevertheless, I find myself smiling as I return to the inn. She is still a hellstorm in her own right: she is certainly doing a fine job of throwing  _my_  life straight into hell. I open the door to our room and the bed, in which she lay sleeping. I have had enough of her sleeping on the floor like an animal. She looks peaceful, and very little like a life-threatening whirlwind.

I remove my cloak and unfasten the topmost layer of my robes, leaving only the shift underneath. I stoke the fire before going under the furs of the bed, and lay facing away from my companion.

She reaches out for me in her sleep, as if drawn by a lodestone. Her front makes contact with my back, and her arm wraps around me. I can feel her face bury itself into my hair, and the puffs of her soft breathing on the back of my neck. She makes some inaudible mumble, and then another after a short pause, and then does not move again. She holds me snugly about the waist, and even in repose, her arms are strong and sturdy.

Her unique icy scent then surrounds me. I close my eyes, and allow it to lull me to sleep.

 

* * *

 

_Author's note:_

 

_1:_ _**IT IS JUST TOBACCO** _ _. I promise._

_2: The name Pheletes is the Latin derivation of the Homeric "Φηλητης," or "Phêlêtês." It is an epithet of his for the Greek god commonly known as Hermes, and has the meanings of "thief" or "robber." In this case, I thought such an epithet of the God of Messengers and Travel could go well with Amara's courier, thus the name._

_3: Actually, speaking of names, "Amara Leone Aestus" has a few sources of inspiration behind it. To begin, "Amara" was my name of choice for this character because of its potential for double-meaning: many cultures, notably in those of romance languages, interpret this name to mean "bitter," or "the bitter one." It can additionally be tied to the Latin verb "amare," which means "to love." The inspiration behind "Leone," her middle name, is shamelessly derived from Don Corleone. Yes. The Godfather. Humor me, guys xD And "Aestus," her family name, is a Latin word meaning things such as "fire," "sultry," or "passion." ... And finally, why did I give her three names? Glad you asked! Every dragon shout in the game is composed of three words, so I thought it might be cool if my Dragonborn had three names too. So there you go!_

 


	6. Laid to Rest, Part 2

**Chapter 6: Laid to Rest, Part 2**

 

_7 Morning Star, 4E202_

 

I awaken to feel her arm wrapped just as tightly about my waist as when I had first laid down. She has not moved, nor have I. Her breath puffs softly against the curls of my hair, which her face has pressed against the back of my neck. I find it a small wonder that her other arm, which is stretched out under my head, has not turned blue from being under my weight for so long. Either way, I am sure that her hand will be numb.

I assume it to be nearing midday. I would very much like for today to mark the last leg of this journey, even if that means that I must ride well into the night. There is much to do, and much to sort out and place properly.

Impulse has dictated that Lydia must be spared, as much as this is against my better judgment. But there is nothing to be done now. If I have not killed her already, then I doubt very much that it will happen in the present or in the future. She stirs slightly and holds me ever tighter… and it is… comfortable. The implications of this are staggering, and I am not so young and foolish that I do not recognize them for what they are.

I am attracted to this woman.

Yes, this carries with it numerous implications. The most prevalent of these is that I would find it exceedingly difficult to bring her to any kind of harm. I ponder it. This attraction must have seeded itself in me somewhat early on, given that I have attempted on several occasions, and yet failed, to do away with her. Yes. I stare down at her hand. I feel a growing disappointment at my own weakness.

I lift her arm from my waist and rise to dress myself. She rolls over and, slowly, wakes up. Her green eyes, darkened somewhat from sleep, find me immediately. My uneasiness deepens. It is… utterly imprudent for me to cultivate this attraction any further.

But what,  _what_ , am I to do with her, then?

She rises after me, and we both go about our morning ablutions in silence. The air feels… heavy, weighted down by something unsaid. I want to scoff and sneer. Since when am I so timid?

"Amara," she comes a little near to me, and I feel my defenses rise, "are you…" She stops herself. Once again, I must credit her for being more intelligent than one might initially presume. She can probably see it in my body language:  _Do not approach, do not say it_.

I hear that same degrading laughter as it rings from the Void. I feel a cold, ghostly finger run down the length of my spine.  _Weak_ , the ghost laughs,  _Weak_.  _Coward_.

I have had quite enough. I turn from her and gather my possessions into my satchel. I want to leave this damned town. I want to be outside, at the very least. I am growing far too aware of the four walls enclosing me, and with every passing second it grows more and more stifling.

"Amara…" She tries again. "So, we're leaving?"

"Yes," I say. I cannot name exactly  _what_  is disturbing me so, just now, but I know that she can see it. It seems I cannot force myself to hide it.

"But what about alerting the Jarl?" I hear her budding frustration. I clench my teeth. She is bound to her nature, as I am to mine.

I have already wasted far too much time. My interest in this affair died when it became apparent that I would not gain a new initiate out of it. I want nothing more to do with it now. I want to go home. "The townsfolk are aware of the situation. They can handle their own affairs."

"They might have a  _vampire_  in their midst! Amara we have to—"

"I do not  _have to_  do anything, Lydia." I do not want to be here. I do not want to explain myself to her. That cold tendril rests between my shoulder blades. Her proximity is infuriating. I want to hold her. I want to stab her. "It is not my duty to care for them. They are grown men and women, and are fully capable of solving their own problems."

Her nostrils flare. Her cheeks redden. Her eyes are wild with some frustrated emotion, and the thought briefly occurs to me that this debate might come to blows. I huff. She would not dare. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Watch your words,  _housecarl_." I snap. I am in no mood to banter, no mood to enjoy her defiance of my wishes. "I have a  _mind_  to send you right the hell home. You  _will not_  defy me. You will obey me. You will pack your things and you  _will_  speak no more of this. Do not test me. I will dismiss you. I do not give a damn about your honor or your Jarl's honor or whatever the hell else there is to honor in this absurd situation you Nords have cast me into." Even through the haze of my anger, I can see the wounded expression take shape on her features. I can see the disillusionment, the disappointment. But I cannot stop myself: now I  _want_  to hurt her.

She merely stands before me, clearly disappointed, and clearly unsure of what to do or to say next. But her hands are balled to fists. I can see the war being fought behind her downcast eyes, behind her scrunched-up brow.

_Run, Lydia_ , I say to her, silently,  _run away_.  _As fast as you can_.  _Of course I have lost my mind—I lost it a long time ago_. Lydia stands to lose hers as well, should she remain with me. This is obvious. She stands only to slip down that spiral with me. I will be the force that pulls her, down, down, down, into the murderous, bloody, gory, glorious madness. It is a family secret: Aestus blood is mad. Utterly mad. We all go mad, in the end. All of us.

I watch her slowly come to a decision. The tension never ceases, but she stands straighter. She is a woman of duty, a soldier, a guardian of law, order, righteousness. I know what she will say before she even says it.

"If that's how it has to be." She opens her pack and pulls out a small coin purse. She tosses it to me. "That's for the horse. It's not nearly enough, but I spent a lot of time chopping wood for what's in that bag. You know, while you were busy sleeping or brooding or whatever it is that you do." She shuts it again, her movements stiff. "Yeah, Amara, my  _Nordic_  honor is important to me. But I'm not used to being a housecarl. I'm used to being a Captain. I'm used to getting respect and a little dignity, not to mention being surrounded by warriors who would have been out hunting down the vampire  _hours_ ago." She beings to strap on her armor. "I'm going to the Jarl, and then I'm going to find the creature and destroy it. What I  _can't do_ ,  _won't do_ , is leave these people behind to be preyed upon." After she finishes with her armor, she hefts her sword in one hand, and her shield in another.

"You cannot return to Whiterun if you do this. You will be shamed," I sneer.

She looks me dead in the eye. "So be it. I know I'm doing the right thing."

My inner disturbance worsens. I feel numb, and yet my blood rushes. I hear it roaring in my ears, feel it in the throbbing of my forehead. "And where will you go?" My voice is strained.

She shrugs. "I'll figure it out. Maybe join the Legion." She looks at me sadly. "I wish you would see reason."

So final. I find it hard to believe that, not an hour ago, she was holding me in bed. Whispers, unpleasant whispers, at the tip of my spine, the base of my skull.

"To Oblivion with you, then!" I shout as I throw the coin purse back at her. The hurt, and the desire  _to_  hurt, well up stronger. I cannot control either one. "Take your money and take the god-damned horse. Go find your monster! I hope it  _sucks you dry_."

She ties the purse to her belt, shoulders her pack, and bows ever so slightly to me. "Thane."

Then she turns and marches out the door. It shuts behind her. I am alone. It… happened so quickly.

Magic crackles across my clenched fists. It jumps up and down my arms.  _Nothing new_ , the voice says,  _Nothing to be done_. And how else could it have turned out? I was a fool to think that she would follow me for much longer than she has. I stare at the door. Her scent still lingers in the room. It lingers in my hair, on my clothes. Her commitment to her honor is indeed tireless—but it is not an honor as judged by others. No, it is truly a personal honor. It is self-worth.

The wood of the door starts to smoke slightly, and I realize that I must control my energies. I take a deep breath. I must leave this place, or I fear I will burn it to the ground.

 

* * *

 

I feed Shadowmere a carrot, which he chews loudly. The sound reverberates in my pounding head. I retrieve a small vial of health potion from his saddlebag and down it in two gulps.

The town is already in the throes of monster hysteria. A mob, complete with torches and various weapons, forms outside the Jarl's door. Lydia, who is likely the source of all this calamity, remains yet to be seen. Just as well. I have no desire to see her face.  _Not true_. The voice, the laugh.  _Weak_.

I grit my teeth. Why must they haunt me now? Why  _now_?

Shadowmere watches me steadily. Lydia's horse whinnies from the adjacent stall. I take his reins, having had far more than enough of this place. To Oblivion with all of it. To the Void with the vampires and the townsfolk and  _Lydia_. All of them. To hell with all of them. The next person to speak to me is dead, I swear it,  _dead_ —

"Listener." A voice from behind. It is monotonous, as if without consciousness of what it says.

And what it has said, I certainly had not expected to hear.

I turn, slowly, my posture coiled and ready to commit murder. My fingers twitch. My magic crackles. A dead man stands before me. There will be no other outcome.

But I am quickly halted. I do not recognize this man who has named me Listener. I do not recall ever seeing him before. A cold wave crashes in my chest. He knows me for what I am, yet I do not know him.  _Have I been exposed?_   _Are there others?_

I wait, cautious, prepared to kill. He speaks again, in the same mindless monotone. "You are the Listener." A statement. A threat, surely. "My mistress send her regards, and her offer: Quell the rebellious cattle, or the coven will expose you." His expression is glazed, and it is as if he does not really see me.

He must be the thrall, Hroggar.  _Ah._  The sun is high in the sky… of course the defenseless vampires must send their daywalking thrall to threaten me into protecting them. Of course they must.

Oh… but they have picked a foul day to make threats. A foul, foul day. Yes, I am the Listener. My rage falls properly into place and finally takes a direction. A bad day, indeed. The fury grows cold and empty, passionless, sharp and deadly. It is the mindset of a murderer. It would seem that the vampires must be reminded of  _why_  I am called the Listener, of  _why_  it is suicide to threaten me. "Where is your mistress, thrall?" The venom in my voice is palpable. "I would speak with her."

 

* * *

 

They are all so predictable. Woe be to the unlucky creature found sleeping during the day.

It is lashed to a chair with metal chains. With a little Alteration magic, I have strengthened its binds and the wood of the chair, so that even the mighty vampire might not break free of them. It struggles nonetheless as I sit and watch. "Did you think I would not retaliate?" I hiss. "Did your coven not  _once_  conclude that I would not take orders so readily?"

It hisses back, a truly animalistic sound, defiant. It says nothing.

"Did you not think I could pick locks? Bind you down? Burn you alive?" I see the fear flash across its face. A sharp-edged satisfaction bubbles up within me. "Oh, was it that last part that made you afraid, vampire?" I smile as it resumes struggling and hissing at me. "I assure you that in a few moments, that is what you will be wishing for." I rise and approach it. It struggles harder, uselessly. My powers are yet stronger. "You will be reminded, creature," I trace a burning finger down its cheek and it wails as I leave a burnt and blackened trail, "that the Dark Brotherhood, and its Listener in particular, are better understood as the force behind your nightmares. That we should be feared as such."

I smile as it whimpers from the burn I have left on its cheek. I back away, turn slightly, and notice a pair of tongs sitting near to the fire. As I pick them up, it finally speaks: "You will learn  _nothing_  from me! You won't find them!"

I trace the tongs over the burn, across its mouth, down its neck. With my magic, I heat them up ever so slightly…  _just_ enough to make the skin tingle. "Oh, my dear," I purr, motioning toward a small journal lying on the table, "you have already told me all that I need to know."

Its eyes go wide. It did not expect me to find that little book. My grin grows ever the more sinister. Yes, I would have made such a fine thief.

 

* * *

 

I brush the dust from my hands and my robes as I steal my way to the lair of the vampire Movarth. Any hope of alliance with my Brotherhood is already long-gone for these idiots. " _Inepti_." My native dialect, and all its available insults and vulgarities, floods my raging thoughts. " _Spurii_. _Mentulae!_ "

I can almost feel the sting of my mother's disapproval on my cheek for such language. Almost.

I emerge from a thicket and right into a circle of torches. It is the very circle I had so hoped to avoid—I had  _hoped_  that they would have all gotten themselves killed by now—but no. No, of course not. I want to groan. Or scream. Or both. The gods must all think this a very fine joke.

I glare at them all. I must look disheveled, sweaty, and wild. I am covered from head to toe in vampire dust, that I know for sure. My torturing of the vampire Alva had been… creative… to say the least.

I meet eyes with Lydia who,  _of course_ , must be there. She is Lydia, the white knight, the one who will fight an entire coven of vampires  _out of the goodness of her heart_. " _Cūle!_ " I insult her, knowing that she will not understand. To my left, someone coughs: a fellow Imperial, apparently having caught my very nasty word. I scowl. No matter. I storm into the cave without ever looking back at her.

"Amara!" I can hear her, loud and artless, as she clambers after me. "Hold on! Wait!"

Stupid woman, I glower inwardly, you will be nothing more than a meat-shield for me.

Any vampires I come across, I burn them to cinders. I give them no chance, no quarter, no mercy. They will be taught a god-damned  _lesson_.

"Wait, Amara, please!" Lydia reaches for my shoulder.

I swat her away. "Get away from me, you  _idiot_ ," I shout as I summon a flame atronach. It nearly burns her with its proximity. Nearly. But no, I just cannot be so lucky. It floats on ahead of us and decimates all that it comes across, per my orders. But it shall save Movarth for me.

The conniving, slithering, back-stabbing, suicidal  _ineptus_  sits in the middle of a great cavern, at the head of a table laden with bleeding human bodies. Some are still alive, even. The look on its face is undoubtedly one of pleasure. It rests its chin on its interlaced fingers. "Well, well," it says, "it is the Red Witch herself. To what do I owe the honor?"

I growl. The sound is unnatural, inhuman. The vampire notices, and some small realization flickers across its features. I mean to say something in return, some venom-laden phrase of retaliation, but what sound bursts up and out of my windpipe is quite different. It erupts from me, an energized blue-tinted wave of force from the Word  _FUS_ , and the vampire is blown back several feet, along with much of the carnage on its table. There is an alien heat in my blood, and it is…  _marvellous_. Is this the Thu'um, then? I slowly approach the creature, drunk on the feeling.

I laugh out loud at the vampire's startled reaction. It scrambles back from me, having clearly realized its fate. I lick my lips and taste the Thu'um, the burning, seething power on my tongue. I laugh again, and the sound is terrible, wonderful. " _You?_ " It shouts. " _You're_  the Dragonborn?"

"And you have dared threaten me." My voice is low, dangerous. It is tinged with the rumbling of my awakened Thu'um. I am thoroughly intoxicated by it, by how it spins through my whole body like some mad whirlwind. "You dared to try and coerce me.  _Me_." I raise my hands and a column of flame surrounds us, effectively blocking the sight of us, and our conversation, from Lydia. "I had every intention of leaving you and your coven in peace. But you, like an  _idiot_ , chose to cross me." The feeling wells up again, bubbling to the surface, threatening to rip from my lungs. "Do you forget who I am, creature?  _Do you forget_?"

"I know you, Listener! We all know you." The vampire stands, shakily, wary of the heat of the wall of flame just behind it. "You have a bloodlust to match the thirstiest among us. As to my offer, it was a matter of survival! Do not stand before me and pretend you have never done such a thing."

I smile. "It did you a whole lot of good, vampire. Your entire coven lies in ashes."

It hisses at me, furious. "You will pay with your life."

"Doubtful." I reply. It lunges at me, but the Thu'um erupts from my body once more and the vampire is thrown back and through the column of flame. I lower it to see the creature lying on its back and looking somewhat roasted.

It glares up at me, burnt, cracked, defeated. I raise my hand. "Babette will be displeased, Lis—" I silence it with flame. Its jaw melts off its head, falls to the ground and turns to dust.

"What was that, Movarth?" The remains of the vampire's tongue hang from the gory, burnt crevice I have carved into its face and throat. Its foul blood escapes in spurts as it makes some unearthly, unpleasant gurgling noise. "Were you going to say something?"

More blood. More gurgling. "Oh, by the gods," Lydia says from behind me. From her tone of voice I can tell she is quite disgusted. "Kill it, already, I'm begging you."

"I will make an example of you, vampire." I say, before I raise my hand and finish him. "No one blackmails me.  _No one_."

Its carcass falls limp. I burn it to ash. I do not stop until there is nothing left of it to burn. As the flames die, and I take a deep breath, I feel the windy rush of the Thu'um as it beats about in my blood, awakened and hungry. I feel it: it is a hunger for knowledge, power, souls, dominance. I lick my lips. It is delicious.

I turn to find Lydia watching me warily. Indeed, I must look crazed and disheveled. I sniff and make toward the exit of the vampire's lair. She follows. Slowly, timidly, she says: "That was… what was that? I've never seen anything like that in my life. You tore through here like a monster out of Oblivion." And then: "And with the fire and the Voice and…" More quietly: "… You came back."

We reach the mouth of the cave. It is already night time, though the moons and the stars are bright tonight. I feel the last of my fury drip away from me, and it is replaced by weariness. I have not gone on a rampage like that since killing the Emperor. I roll my shoulders and my neck, and feel the slight pop as my spine readjusts itself. I breathe the fire out, though the Thu'um still thrums in me.

The cowardly townsfolk had scattered long before. "Amara…" she says, softly. "Please, talk to me, I…" She takes a moment to breathe. "Thank you."

I look at her. She is so earnest, so stuck in her ways. I huff.  _As am I_. "You left me, after how much you begged to come along. You left."

"I-I'm sorry. Really. I mean, not for doing what I thought was right, but for… hurting you." She comes a little closer, and I raise my nose into the air.

My posture remains dangerous. I still want to be angry and to hurt her. I want her to feel the pain that I have felt from all that I have suffered and endured. From having to carve out my place with blood and toil. She knows nothing. She will never understand.

"I was planning on… well… after this was cleaned up, I was gonna track you down and try to make amends. I know it wasn't the best plan in the world, but…" She gives me that same sad look as before. "I… really didn't want to leave you. I just can't help myself. When I see a problem, I'm driven to fix it." She pauses. "Like this, right now. I understand that what I did goes against the code, and that by all rights, you've dismissed me. I still don't like what happened earlier, and I think that… in many ways… we still need to learn how to live with each other, but… Amara, I want to be your housecarl."

"Oh, do you now? I will have you know, Lydia, that what you did was inexcusable. I only came back because one of that vampire's  _minions_  made an attempt to blackmail me. With what information, I shall never tell you. But it necessitated swift action." I must still be drunk from the Thu'um, because I can not otherwise conclude why I would see fit to tell her this. "I did  _not_  come back for  _you_."

"I know, I heard that."

"You are utterly dense," I sneer as I storm back toward the town.

"Yeah, well, you're selfish. And kind of a sadist."

I stop to glare at her. "Insulting me is not going to help your case."

She returns my look wearily. "I'm stating a fact, Amara. That's not an insult. It's a fact." She sighs. "But, we're back in a pair, aren't we? You came back, and so did I. Here we are."

I storm onward and ignore her. It seems that I am destined to spend this whole day angry. Yes, here we are: angry, but together. First she was thrust upon me, and now, it would seem, I am choosing her. It is amazing what one small spark of libido can do to one's judgment. I frown.  _And yet, we have not even_ …

And yet I want to. I know that I want to. "Leave me again and I swear I will kill you myself." I know it is an empty threat, but still, it is satisfying to say.

"I'm sure," she replies dryly.

Halfway to our destination, the heady smell of Aetherius hits me like a wall of stone. I stop dead and look about warily. Lydia slows and rests her hand on her sword. "What is it?"

I cast the perception spell a third time, and immediately, she tenses. The little ghost appears before us in short order, a smile on its smoky-white face. It says: "Mother's calling me. It's time for me to sleep now… I'm so tired." Its smile breaks into a ghastly grin. "Thank you for making her feel better!" Then it disappears.

We share a look for a moment, Lydia and I. Then we continue our walk in silence.

 

* * *

 

A fire blazes merrily in the hearth. We lie together in the bed. I am comfortable, finally clean, warm, quiet. She lies on her back, and I rest my head on her shoulder. We both know it is probably better  _not_  to talk about what we are doing. Her fingers play with my hair. She breathes steadily, and from my position, I can hear her heartbeat. My thoughts land briefly on the many times I have wished to cause this sound to cease.

"Doesn't it feel good," she says to me, quietly, "knowing you've saved an entire town of people?"

It feels odd. It feels alien, and unlike me. "I suppose."

"Do you understand why I… did what I did?"

"Grudgingly, yes, though it was poorly handled." She holds me tighter, then, as if fearing that I will pull away from her. I sigh. "But… I am… very stubborn. It was poorly handled… by us both." Her tension still does not release, and perhaps we are both pondering at the fact that I have just swallowed my pride and admitted guilt. I really do not want to dwell on it.

"Mmm," she hums, and then we drop it. Neither of us wants to deal with that particular subject anymore. I wish to sweep all of it away for the moment: our disagreement, our stubbornness, this awful day, and Astrid's voice, so full of mockery and doubt, which so haunts me. For now, I just want to put it all away. "So… who is Babette?"

"Nobody." I press myself against her, with the intention of making her forget her question.

It works. I hear her sharp intake of breath, feel her hands clench at my waist. "O-Okay." Then, when I move to press our bodies flush against one another, we are caught in that moment: that one, particular, peculiar moment, right before the first kiss.

It is that moment of bated breath, when with the coming of a sharp inhale, two new lovers are drawn together as if willed by some strange magic. It is the anticipation, the nervous buildup to that first touch. It lasts only for an instant, and yet moves so very slowly.

And then the lovers do finally touch, and the tension shatters. And then she is mine, warm and willing and affectionate, but also powerful. She rolls us over after a moment, and leans on one arm to regard me. "So… So you are… interested…?"

_Against my better judgment_ … "I am."

Then she kisses me again, and we remain like that for a small while, feeling, exploring. She moves to press her lips to my jaw, my neck. The pleasure from it is immediate, and thrilling. "What changed?" She asks, her voice breathy, with her lips brushing just underneath my ear.

"What do you mean?" My hands lightly rub her back and shoulders, encouraging her.

Our legs entwine. "You pulled away from me yesterday." Her thigh presses just where I want it to.

"I suppose the events of today have inspired me… to…" she presses against me a little harder, "to… ah… be  _warmer_  toward you… as it were." I inhale deeply, and my back arches as she strokes my lust. "Do not… question it."

"As you wish," she says, her voice husky with desire, as she comes back down to kiss me.

 

* * *

 

_Author's Note:_

 

_Amara's native dialect, as I'm sure we've all guessed, is Latin. The curse words she was using are real… check out the wiki page for "Latin profanity" if you're interested. ;)_

_Questions, comments, and criticisms are all most welcome._


	7. Blood on the Ice, Part 1

**Chapter 7: Blood on the Ice, Part 1**

 

_9 Morning Star, 4E202_

 

I open the door to my house. Finally, I am where I belong, in Dawnstar.

Almost immediately, frenzied, clicking footfalls are heard from above and in the next moment, I am nearly barreled over by my dog. My manservant, or should I say, my personal Silencer, greets me next. " _Domina_ ," he says with a bow as I push the dog back down to the floor.

"Ungolim," I reply. "I trust you have kept everything in order?"

"Exactly to your wishes,  _Domina_."

Lydia follows in behind me. The dog bounds over to her, energetic as ever, and in the exact opposite way than I had originally acquired him for. He was meant to be a guard dog, and I watch in defeat as he greets Lydia with joy and welcome and she laughs and smiles and scratches behind his ears. I sigh. What a waste of money.

"Shall I prepare a room for your guest,  _Domina_?" Ungolim asks me as I watch Lydia enjoy my wasted resources. I turn to him. He stands patiently before me, unhurried and submissive as ever. He, at least, was a good investment: stealthy, a true artist of the quick and quiet kill.

"No," I say to him, and I gesture that he walk into my office in the adjacent room, "but I would have a word with you." I then turn to Lydia. "Wait here."

She makes a face, but nods, and then returns her attention back to my overzealous dog.

I shut the office door behind myself and Ungolim. "It goes without saying," I begin, "that I require your full compliance in this matter. That woman in my living room cannot, under  _any_  circumstances, learn of our trade. Am I perfectly clear?"

"Perfectly,  _Domina_."

"You, and anyone who comes into contact with her, must never refer to me as the Listener. Any other polite title will do, for that you may use your imagination. But use your discretion."

"I will use it,  _Domina_. I will also go to the Sanctuary this minute to spread the word. Will that be acceptable?"

"Yes" Then I think for a moment. "No." I cross my arms. "I would speak with all of them myself. I have another task for you. I must leave her here. You will watch her and tend to her needs. You may answer her questions, so long as they do not relate to our trade." I pause, then: "If she asks me, I will tell her that I am a businesswoman or some such thing." I smirk. "It is not… a complete untruth." He smirks as well.

"May I speak,  _Domina_?" My Silencer says with a slight bow.

"You may."

" _Domina_ , I, as well as all of the others, we are aware of this woman's presence. Pheletes delivered your messages not a day ago. It is true, what they say? That she is not intended to join us?" His eyes flicker to the door, beyond which we can hear Lydia banging about. Sithis only knows by what means she is making such noise. "She would make a… unique addition, if  _Domina_  would allow my conjecture."

"I will agree with you, even." My Silencer inclines his head, pleased. "But it is true. She is not to join us." I lean against my desk. "There are… other forces at work. I imagine all of you have heard the news out of Whiterun."

"We have,  _Domina_. Word traveled through our couriers and the allied covens. I heard that…" and here he looks at me strangely, "the Red Witch, as some covens call you, killed a dragon and took its soul."

"It is accurate. Because of it, I was made a Thane of Whiterun. That woman out there is my housecarl, Lydia. She has no family name, to my knowledge." I cross my arms. "She can be useful to me, in many ways. This is why she must be handled carefully. I can trust no one but you, my Silencer, with the task of keeping her while I am in the Sanctuary."

"It will be done,  _Domina_."

"Good," I turn to leave. "Oh, one more thing." I stop and turn back toward him. "Is Cicero still alive?"

"He is,  _Domina_ , but he has been rather difficult to handle in your absence. Lately we have been chaining him up next to The Night Mother, at Nazir's suggestion."

"I see," I rest my hand on the door handle. "Then, Ungolim," I say as I open the door, "take our things to my room, and do draw a bath for my housecarl…" I look at Lydia with a tinge of distaste, "for it would seem she is now covered in fur and dog slobber."

She returns my look, sheepish, though unapologetic.

 

* * *

 

"So why is a Wood Elf calling you by a Cyrodilic name?" Lydia says, her mouth half-full with her dinner.

"Civilized people first chew, swallow, and then speak, Lydia." I reply to her as I spread some butter on a slice of bread. I will teach her some manners yet, even if it kills me. "And if you must know, it is because I asked him to."

"Hey, now," she says, her voice silky, as she reaches out to touch my hand. "What's got you so uptight?"

Such easy intimacy. I am unused to it. I feel myself freeze, unable to take my hand away, and yet I am unsure as to whether I want to let her hold it like that. She looks at me, tender, concerned. Honest. I am aware of Ungolim's hovering presence, just beyond the threshold of the door. It is… odd… to have Lydia in this place, my household, and to allow her to act toward me in this way. It is a strange addition of contrast. "Nothing, I…" and it is here, now, that I must begin to weave my web of lies in full, "I simply have several affairs to arrange."

She squeezes my hand. "Can I help?"

She is warm. I imagine I must feel like ice. "No." I return to my meal, unwilling to continue this line of conversation.

The dog rests his head in Lydia's lap, begging. She feeds him scraps when she thinks I am not looking. "So what's your dog's name?"

"Duran."

"Duran?" She pauses. "I could swear I've heard that name before. Isn't it in a story or something?"

"Mm, yes," I smile, pleased with her small show of erudition, "a legend, to be exact. An awful one. I hated the whole story. It was terribly written."

Lydia shoots me a look of incredulity. "You named your dog after a story you don't like?"

"I liked Duran." I say between sips of wine. It is a fine red, imported from Cyrodiil. "Most of the story was a poor excuse for drama… but the desire to know the fate of some of the characters kept me reading."

"So, you like to read?" Lydia leans an elbow on the table—ever in keeping with her terrible manners—and regards me with a strange, tender look.

"Ah… yes?" I cannot quell this feeling of discomfort.

"And what else do you like?"

"What… else?"

"Yes."

I do not even know what to say. I am not blind to the fact that she is simply trying to learn more about me. It should not come as a surprise, all things considered: this is the very same woman who first dared to ask me my full name and marital status, and who now… shares my bed. "That is a broad question."

"Fair enough. Okay." She pauses in thought for a brief moment. "Well, what are your favorite things? Do you have a favorite color? A favorite flower? A food?"

I know that my expression must be condescending her at this point. I suppose that, at least, she deserves credit for trying in spite of it. "No."

"No?"

"No."

She pulls her pipe from her belt, crestfallen, and turns it idly about in her fingers. I watch her fidget. "Oh."

After a few moments of pregnant silence, I say: "I have played the lute since childhood." It has been a useful skill on numerous occasions, in fact. The revelers at the wedding of Vittoria Vici, for example, never expected one of their hired musicians to be an assassin…

She brightens instantly. "That's quite a respectable skill. Would you… ever consider showing me?"

I finish my wine. "Perhaps." I rise and call for Ungolim.

He enters immediately and bows slightly. " _Domina_."

"Have Cook clear the dishes, and serve Lydia any desserts or beverages which she might require." I turn to my housecarl. "I must leave now to arrange some personal affairs. You are to remain here. Ungolim will tend to you."

"But—"

I halt her forthcoming protest with a raised hand. "You will remain here, Lydia. Ungolim," I say, now to my Silencer, "if she attempts to follow me, feel free to chain her up in the cellar." I try to tinge my voice with a small amount of humor, though it does not seem to work.

Ungolim nods in assent. "Yes,  _Domina_."

My housecarl is displeased, but she remains in her seat. She starts packing her leaves into her pipe. As I leave the room, I hear her say to Ungolim, with defeat: "I guess I'll have a mug of cold ale, then."

 

* * *

 

The black door closes behind me, and Nazir is waiting for me on the other side. Babette, her Silencer, and Cicero await me a little further down the hall, near to the coffin of The Night Mother. I note the iron band around Cicero's left ankle.

"Listener," Nazir says with relief as he takes my hand. "I can't even begin to tell you how relieved I am to see you back here in one piece."

"Nazir." I nod to him in greeting, give his bigger hand a small squeeze, and continue down the hall toward Mother. He follows me. "We have much to discuss."

"So I've heard." He says as we come to a stop before Mother's shrine.

Babette hugs me about the waist. Her Silencer, the Breton woman Gulitte, bows deeply. Cicero mocks me from his corner. I note with satisfaction the heavy weight of his chains. I approach Mother's coffin, and kneel. "Mother," I say, as I touch my forehead to the floor before her mangled corpse, "I and the Black Hand require your counsel."

For a moment, there is nothing but silence. Then the body starts to hum and glow, ever so slightly, with the power of the Void.  _My Listener_. Her voice slithers between my ears.  _I have been watching you. Relate your tale, first, to my Black Hand_.

"Yes, Mother." I say, as I raise myself from the cold stone. I turn to Babette and Nazir. "You both have, no doubt, read my missives."

"I take it you mean the ones about you being Dragonborn?" Babette says, her hands on her little hips, "Because by the time the initiate Eilonwy made it to their coven, there was nothing but ashes. I got a note from her by hawk, not an hour ago." She gives me a wry look. "You know, she found a terrified thrall in one of the dark corners of that cave, just raving on and on about how the 'Red Witch' burned all his masters to cinders."

I huff. "The idiots threatened to expose me."

"Still," she continues, "that might not look good with the other covens…"

I wave it away. "Pardon me, Babette, but it is a matter for another day." She nods. "Yes, I mean the missives about what occurred in Whiterun. About the apparent return of the dragons, and my… ability… to use their power." I then relate the tale in full, describing all the events from the time of my return to Whiterun with the Eldergleam sapling, up to my encounter with Movarth, and my experience with the magnitude of the power of the Thu'um. I allow a small pause after I finish, and then I say: "I would speculate… that a great many higher powers are coming to play in Skyrim. And it would seem that the gods have marked me to play a role." I sneer at the thought, but continue: "This is why we need Mother's counsel, as well as a plan."

"Should have made dear Cicero the Listener!" The madman laughs in his dank corner. "Cicero would never leave Mother!" His chain rattles as he kicks his feet like a toddling child. His clothes are dirty, worn, and in need of repair.

I lean toward Gulitte. "Do be a dear and have an initiate help you chain him up in the torture room."

"Yes, Listener." She bows and goes about her task of finding an extra pair of hands.

"Mother," I say with deference, "we are in need of your wisdom." I return to my kneeling position before her body.

_Many forces are at work, indeed, my Listener_. Her toothy hiss of a voice caresses my consciousness. I admit I have missed her full presence in my mind.  _Forces which will come to interfere with the work of the Dread Father… Though I am loathe to send you away from us._ She pauses a moment, and I watch the Void thrum within her. I find myself at a loss. I do not want to leave, either.  _It is… difficult… for me to reach you when you move too far from Dawnstar._

"Then I will remain here, Mother, and fulfill my duty to you."

"What's she saying?" Nazir says, over my shoulder. Babette quickly hushes him.

Just then, Gulitte returns with the initiate Falcar, and together, the two wrestle a  _very_  reluctant Cicero down the stairs. He raves furiously the whole way, and I do my best to ignore him and remain quietly kneeling before Mother, who has not stopped glowing and is, therefore, not done speaking with me.

_Our Dread Father remembers times past, and the times before Time, before the devouring of the last world, and the one before that. He remembers the time before his soldiers, our Dark Brotherhood, would sacrifice souls in his name. In the world before this, before His Night Mother and her Five Children. Our existence… our traditions… appease Him._

"I am honored to know that we do Him good service, Mother." My knees are beginning to ache.

_My Listener… you must go to the Greybeards. The Dread Father wishes it._ The glow fades.

I remain in my position for a moment yet. I admit, I was not expecting this turn of events. Even more specifically, I was not expecting  _Sithis_ , of all entities, to desire that I act to save lives. I rise. I suppose I will be given much time, in my coming journey, to ponder His reasons.

A feeling wells up in me, something akin to frustration. It smolders in my chest. It is, perhaps, the red thread, as it tightens its inevitable binds on my soul. In simple terms, I can feel the long path as it stretches before me, and I am already weary. I can feel the unseen fingers of unseen forces as they begin to poke me into  _this_  and  _that_  mold,  _this_  and  _that_  way of life. I want to laugh.

And so another mad Aestus shall be cast to the sacrificial fire. It was only a matter of time, I suppose.  _Should have stayed with the Synod…_

"So, what did she say?" Nazir's voice once again cuts into my thoughts.

"Wait 'till she's ready, I told you!" Babette admonishes once more. "This takes concentration."

"No, I am ready." I say as I turn to them. "Let us move to the table… I could use a glass of wine." A chilled glass of red is already sitting on the table by the time I am down the stairs, placed by a punctual, and apparently quite observant, initiate. I look him over: he must be new, for I do not know him. "I greet you, Brother. Do tell me your name."

He bows deeply, and his new armor creaks softly in response. "My Listener, I am Fafnir. It is an honor to finally meet you."

I nod. I like him already. A young man, lean muscle, probably an ex-thief. He has the look of ambition in his eye. "Well met, Brother Fafnir." I take my seat. "Stand by with more of that red, will you? A fine choice, by the way."

He bows again, pleased.

I sip at it. It is cold and good, and a welcome balm against the present conversation. "The Night Mother is of the opinion that I should go to the Greybeards. She says it is the will of Sithis." I lean back in my chair. My mother would likely admonish my poor posture.

" _Sithis_. Our Sithis?  _He_  wants you to… defend people from dragons?" Nazir is incredulous. I cannot blame him, truly.

"I am… still working that out, myself." I hold my cup out to Fafnir for a refill. Apparently I intend to get drunk.

"Oh, don't you two read at all?" Babette says. "Well… alright, I'll grant that you both haven't had as much time as I've had. But there's more dragonlore out there then you both might think. I had a chance to read some of it about 150 years ago, or so, after I assassinated one of the Blades Loremasters in their main library." She beams at me, apparently still proud of that kill. By Sithis, but she can be terrifying sometimes. I remind myself, once more, to never make an enemy of her. "The Greybeards probably know more, but basically, the return of the dragons to the mortal world signals the coming of the end of time. The Last Dragonborn—that's you—is supposed to stop this somehow. That's what I remember, anyway."

I hold out my cup again. Again, Fafnir fills it. Correction:  _very_  drunk. " _I_ am supposed to prevent  _the end of the world_?"

Nazir bursts out laughing. "Oh you've  _got_  to be kidding me!" I give him a dirty look. "Oh, come on. It's funny. The Listener of the Dark Brotherhood: Last Dragonborn, savior of mortalkind. The gods really do have a fascinating sense of humor."

I sigh. "Nazir, I do not even know how serious any of this is, yet. All I know is that Sithis and The Night Mother would see me go to the Greybeards. Beyond that, I am as clueless as you are." I drain my cup again. Fafnir refills it. "The next issue is how in the name of Zenithar we are going to maintain business." I lean forward as a welcome feeling of drunkenness begins to relax my muscles. "The Night Mother can reach me over long distances, but with spotty reliability. I have a mind to take Ungolim with me, and maybe assign a courier to follow me specifically. If I hear something from Mother, I can have one of them relay it. Beyond that, we may have to temporarily revert to how things were before I came along."

Nazir groans. "Footwork, again?"

"Well, do you have a better suggestion?"

"Other than saying you should try to come back to Dawnstar as often as possible, no." He looks over to Fafnir, who stands near to me with his jug at the ready. "Have you been given an assignment yet, Brother?"

"No, Brother."

Nazir gives me a look, and I take the hint. "Well then," I say, "I believe I have a use for you. You will act as my courier and, perhaps, as an assistant to my Silencer, Ungolim. You have met him, yes?"

"I have, Listener. I would be honored to assist you."

"Good." I rise from the table, swaying slightly. "I must return to my house in Dawnstar proper. I will commune again with The Night Mother in the morning for a list of contacts. That should at least tide us over for the next few weeks." I make to leave, but then stop. "One more thing," I say as I turn back around, "As I am sure you are all aware, my housecarl is traveling with me. She is not to know of us, nor are any of you to refer to me as Listener or Sister in her presence. Spread the word among the initiates." I then take the jug from Fafnir, and say to him: "Ungolim will be along in the morning to brief you."

"I'll be here, Listener." He says with a bow.

 

* * *

 

He actually did it. I look at her, half in amusement, half in bewilderment. He  _really_  did it.

He chained her up in the cellar.

How in the world he managed, I could not even fathom. The two are of a similar size, but he informed me that he used no sedatives to restrain her. And Lydia is so much stronger than she looks.

The brat had tried to escape and follow me while Ungolim had gone to fetch her that mug of ale. I smile wickedly at her. Ah, but no one escapes my Silencer. He is, simply put, an utterly brilliant assassin. Lydia is lucky she is not dead, if I may be honest with myself. She struggles against the bindings as I stand before her. Ungolim waits near to the stairs. Oh, but she is  _not_  happy. "What kind of a gods-bedamned monster  _is_  that elf?" She finally stops struggling and regards me hotly. "By Talos, Amara, let me go."

"Ungolim," I say, without taking my eyes off of Lydia, "if you would bring a chair over here and then leave us, I would be much obliged."

"Of course,  _Domina_ ," he says as he does what I ask. He then leaves us after a moment.

I set the jug down next to the chair and seat myself. Ungolim was thoughtful enough to leave me a cup.  _Should increase his pay…_ Lydia kneels before me, her hands bound above her in steel cuffs that jut somewhat from the wall. I swill my cup of wine as I regard her. I sip it carefully, and I let her watch me take my time in acknowledging her otherwise. The light down here is low, the shadows gentle. In her tunic and breeches, with her black hair shiny and clean, she looks so  _very_  attractive. I should be angrier with her but… ah… perhaps it is the wine, perhaps it is her amusing position… but I do not think I could bring myself to scold her in earnest.

Her pose is so… utterly submissive. I feel that same sense of discomfort as before, as if the image before me is not quite right.

Even so… defiance must be met with discipline. I lean back in my chair and get comfortable. I regard her steadily for a few minutes more. I watch her breath quicken. She is no fool. "... I do not ask much of you, Lydia." I say to her, my voice low. "Just a few requests, a few simple requests." I sip my wine. "You continue to fail to understand your position. You are… a terrible housecarl, my dear."

She hangs her head. "I'm sorry."

I cup my ear mockingly, and lean toward her. "Oh, pardon, what did you say?"

"I… I'm sorry!" She pleads. "I just… I just… I don't know. My gut says something's not right. I was just doing what I thought was best."

I go back to silently regarding her. I let her hang on those words for a little while before I reply to her. She must know that, although I am perfectly willing to let her be herself, it is  _I_  who holds authority between us. That when I give her an order, she will follow it. That here, right now, this conversation will only continue when  _I_  allow it. "You are not in a position to make such decisions,  _housecarl_." I take another sip, and I lick my lips slowly afterward.

She watches… intently.

I place my cup on the floor. "I just… want to protect you…" I unfasten the stays of the topmost part of my robes. "... my Thane."

I turn slightly and blast the hearth with a gout of fire. The room grows much hotter, almost instantly. Beads of sweat start to form on her brow, and on her neck, where they roll down, slowly. Her breath quickens even more. I unfasten my robes further. "I am going to teach you a lesson, Lydia. Several, actually." I drop the top and middle layers, which reveals the thin, almost transparent shift underneath.

"My Thane… Amara… please." Perhaps unconsciously, she struggles uselessly toward me. I watch as her desire fully grips her, as the simple feeling of  _want_  causes her pupils to dilate.

I pull an ebony dagger from a strap on my right thigh. "First, Lydia, you will learn that I really, truly, do not tolerate such insubordination so well." I use the dagger to cut away the stays of her tunic, so that it falls open. I then dip the dagger down to her breeches. He breathing is ragged. "Second, that I am a woman of… mmm…  _darker_  tastes." The dagger cuts into her breeches, and over the course of a few seconds, tears them to ribbons. "And third… that my punishments will inevitably fall in line with those tastes." I drag the sharp point of the dagger  _oh so lightly_  across the flesh of her stomach, just light enough not to cut.

She starts to struggle in earnest. "Please. Amara. Please. I'm sorry." She gasps as the dagger cuts through the fabric of her  _brassiere_.

I kneel before her, my dagger still pressed to her sternum. Lightly.  _Harmlessly_ … "You are… sorry?" I purr. I sheathe the dagger after cutting off the rest of her smallclothes. My fingers trail a path down her stomach, toward the apex of her thighs.

Her hips buck. Lust strokes her. "Gods… you're fucking sick."

I take my fingers away. She groans, frustrated. Her words contradict her actions. "A poor statement, dear." So stubborn. So deliciously stubborn.

She struggles. Her hips move, uselessly, as she seeks friction. " _Please_." She pleads. I press two fingers against her, just where she wants them. She inhales quickly, a gasp. "...  _Please_." I move them, lightly, frustratingly slowly. She growls. "Amara… I'm fucking  _begging_ you!"

I press my other palm to the wall behind her, and I press my nose to hers. In a threatening, dangerous whisper, I say: "If you come before I say you can, I will flog you. Do you understand?"

Her hips grind against my hand. " _Yes_." She says.

I push into her. She cries out, her lips to my ear, her arms struggling uselessly to grasp at me. Her back arches. He head throws back. She is so ready for me, so welcoming. The sounds she makes are beautiful, poetic. By the gods, she wants me so badly.

Her movements match to mine and I taste her sweat as she makes every effort to touch me. She bites down… ever so lightly… on the lobe of my ear, and immediately, I feel the hot and heady reaction in my loins. I reward her with a hard thrust, at which she gasps against my ear.

"Ah…  _Amara_!" She arches against the wall. Her knees grind into the floor, padded only by the shreds of her trousers. "Gods… please!" I move my fingers inside her as I thrust. I move my other hand from the wall and wrap that arm around her bucking waist. I press our bodies flush. "Please…" she breathes, "let me… please…"

But I wait. No, she must suffer it first.

I alternately kiss and bite her neck. I thrust harder. She thrashes against me. " _Ama… ra!_ " I use my body to press her to the wall. My fingers, they bury themselves deep inside her. Her inner muscles tremor and make small contractions around me. She is trying so hard to follow my orders, to please me. Oh, but I can feel it: how badly she needs to come. How her hips thrust against my fingers, how her lips are pressed to my neck as she tries to muffle her cries.

"Let me hear you," I growl. I thrust deep. "Let me… hear you come. I want to hear it, Lydia."

She cries out, and I feel her inner muscles clench hard around my fingers as her pleasure crests. She spends violently against me, her back arching despite the pressure of my own body against hers. And the sounds she makes… by Sithis. The potent breathy gasp of a woman in pleasure. I make small movements inside of her, until she has ridden it fully.

She slumps against me, her head on my shoulder. I remain inside of her for the moment, just until her own muscles relax a little. When they do, and when her breathing slows somewhat, I pull out of her, slowly, gently. I lean back. She is flushed, sweaty, and covered in bite marks. I cannot help but feel a sense of satisfaction.

I retrieve the key to her shackles from my robes. I free her wrists, and she drops them to the floor, likely in an effort to restore the blood flow. Her breath is still a touch accelerated. She rubs her wrists and hands, reddened by the bite of the binds. After a short moment, her eyes roll up slowly to regard me. Her expression, I admit, is difficult to read.

A…  _feeling_  wells up in my bones, like some kind of burning constriction. The lascivious ache still roils within me, still directs me to take her up the stairs and to my bed. But…

She is staring at the dagger on my thigh. Just staring at it.

This mixture of sensations is curious, and unsettling. All at once I am driven to perform several actions simultaneously, all of which contradict one another. I am driven to further assert my dominance by leaving her here, to let her think on what has just occurred. I am driven to take her into my arms and attempt to lend a measure of comfort, to show her that all is forgiven, and that I am pleased with her performance. And I am driven to let her reciprocate my actions, to place her atop me and to let her do with me as she would wish.

That third inclination is, to me, especially strange. Not even during our first encounter did I allow her to remain over me for very long. It made for a notable clash of wills, though in the end, it was she who relented.

But here, now, she was not given even a  _chance_  to grasp at any sort of power. She was not given a choice. Her eyes are closed, and she rubs her wrists still. Perhaps they are sore. She is naked other than for the tatters of her tunic, which hangs awkwardly from her shoulders. Perhaps she, too, now does not know what to do, or what to say. Perhaps she is waiting for me to decide.

I move forward and, very gently, I take her wrists into my hands. She does not wince, but she watches me steadily. I will the soft glow of magical energy to my palms. Light, warm, and delicate, the magic seeps into her abused skin, and removes the red mar. The long breath she then takes is, I think, one of relief.

Slowly, I move my hands from her wrists to lightly grasp at her palms, her fingers. There is a heavy quiet between us, and for some reason, I am compelled not to meet her eyes with my own. I am not sure if she is looking at me either, or if she, like me, is steadily holding her gaze on our entwined hands. Is this my unspoken apology? Do I seek a silent penance for using her as I have?

Am I sorry?

I decide to fight my hesitance, and I raise my eyes to her face. She  _is_  looking at me. Her green gaze says perhaps many things, and nothing, all at once. But she is obviously waiting for me to take a course of action.

"... Come on." I say quietly, as I pull us both to our feet. Then she is standing so close to me, taller than me, looking down at me, her expression still so silent and still so unnervingly beautiful. I reach behind me to grasp the top layer of my robes, which I then drape about her shoulders. It is somewhat too small, but it does what it needs to do. I don the other layer and lead us both back up the stairs, into the warmth and soft glow of my living room, where my dog lies before the central hearth. Ungolim, it would seem, has retired to his quarters for the evening.

Then I lead us up a second flight of stairs, to my bedroom. The bed is made, neat and pristine. Our possessions are tucked into a corner. This room is also warm, also glowing softly with light from the sconces on the walls.

I make to pull her toward my bed, but she hesitates. When I turn to look at her, I see that her eyes are once again trained on the dagger at my thigh. I unstrap it and toss it into a corner, and it hits the floor with a loud  _clang_. Now she lets me guide her, until we are both atop the cushions and fine linen. I pull the blankets over us, and take her into my arms.

And for a short while, we lay quietly… until, in a small voice, she says: "I try… you know." Her tone is ragged, sad. "I try to go along with… with all of this. With you and how you're running away from your duty." I feel, rather than see, the small droplets as they fall from her eyes and onto my skin.  _So, the warrior weeps_ … "And… gods, Amara, you're so beautiful. You're so strong, but… You're twisted." Still, she buries her face further into my shoulder. "And I… begged. While you held a damn  _knife_  to my belly, I begged."

I close my eyes. Yes, I am… twisting her, too. "You are embarrassed."

"I'm  _humiliated_. And… what's more… that was such a violation of my trust. To threaten me with a weapon… you… Gods. That kind of… of violence. It's so… unnecessary."

I lean up on my arms, so as to see her face. She does not hide her red eyes from me. "You were… afraid of me?"

She does not answer. Perhaps that answer is too difficult for her to conceive, or accept. She just stares at me, and her stare is red-rimmed and chilly.

I try a different angle. "You disliked that aspect greatly." It is a statement, not a question. I take a breath. "Then you know, now, not to defy me." She grits her teeth, and fury begins to tinge her features. She sits up and away from me, disgusted. "Really, Lydia," I quip, "there are  _worse_  ways I could discipline a subordinate, all things considered. It certainly did not end  _badly_  for you."

Her fists clench. "Oh is  _that_  it? I'm just supposed to bend over and say 'Thank you'?"

"No." I fire back. "You are supposed to heed my orders, which are  _few_ , to say the least. Not to mention very reasonable. You follow that very simple course of action, and our encounters will be nothing but pleasant. You defy me, and I will punish you."

"With a knife. A  _knife_. What next, just a little cut? A stab in the belly? Give me some burns while you're at it? Do you treat all your servants like this?"

I stare at her, long and hard. I cannot deny that I took pleasure in my actions, despite the niggling sensation that what I did was well beyond what her pride could reasonably endure. But… could I actually hurt her? No. No, I could not. I have decided this already. "No, Lydia."

"No,  _what_?"

"No, I… could not bring myself to harm you."

"Oh, of course. But a few little brushes with a blade. That's perfectly fucking harmless."

Her sarcasm bites into my flesh, as, I would assume, she intends it to. Frustration floods me, in tandem with an overwhelming sensation of being trapped. My skin suddenly feels like a prison; there is no other way to describe it. I need this to stop. I have already decided to be an idiot and bring her along with me, and beyond that, to allow myself to be attracted to her. If these conditions must exist, then I cannot let this situation continue. It must stop. This feeling is too much, too undesirable.

I need to find a way out. I sit up to face her, and I take a breath to better compose myself. "You are…" I begin, steady, as I wrap my hands around one of her fists, "the first person, in a very long time, who I have opened my bed to." I run the pads of my thumbs over her skin. "And I barely know you." I shake my head a little. "I have never done that before, you know. I have never just  _taken_  to someone so quickly. In fact, I… rarely ever take to anyone… at all."

"Why the knife, then? Why, if I'm so different?"

I deal in death. I deal in threats. I deal in terror, domination, and dark deeds. I am a monster: mad, twisted, evil. I am the worst kind, in fact, because I am perfectly aware of it. I know the difference between right and wrong, and I know the potential consequences of my actions. I know that my path is the "wrong" one, and although I do not serve The Night Mother out of a simple desire to kill, I also have no qualms with it.

This is merely my business, and it is one which, in the end, is extremely profitable. It is one which cultivates my darkest tastes until I can no longer distinguish myself from ever having lived without indulging them: tastes for power, for wealth, for living outside and above the law. Really it is… all quite simple.

But I cannot tell her that. Not all of it, anyway. "I am… twisted, as you say. I work in strange and often… unorthodox ways." She softens a little, but not by much. "And to answer your earlier question: no. I do not treat all my servants as I treated you. Perhaps they are flogged, but only when necessity truly demands it. I do not want to touch them in such a way as I do… you." I search her face. "And they certainly could not touch  _me_. No, very few people in this world have ever been given such allowance."

"Well… sex isn't a weapon, Amara. It isn't a tool for domination, either. And domination certainly  _isn't_ what I was looking for when I first came to you." She pulls her hand away. "I'm your housecarl, not your body slave. I may be a servant to you, but to give you myself was my own choice. That demands a much higher level of respect than what you've shown me." She gets up, then goes over to her pack and retrieves from it a new change of clothes. She dresses herself, and heads for the door.

_Gods, she is leaving again._  "W-Wait!" I stumble over the word. There is a heavy pressure in my throat, as if I were choking. "Just… Just wait."

So, she crosses her arms, glares at me, and waits. But she says nothing.

I rise from the bed and approach her. With caution, I come close. She continues to glare. I reach a hand up and, as gently as I can, I brush her cheek with my fingers. Her expression softens, to my great relief. I press myself to her, and bury my face into her neck and shoulder. "Please… stay," I whisper.

After a pause, her arms finally come to wrap about my waist. Mine go about her neck. Her scent is intoxicating. Her lips come close to my ear, and she replies, softly: "Promise me you won't do it again."

I pull even harder at her. "I promise."

 

* * *

 

_12 Morning Star, 4E202_

 

My decision for us to stop over in Windhelm is two-sided: first and foremost, this cold is growing utterly unbearable; second, there are two separate contacts here with whom I must meet in order to arrange contracts. Truthfully I am glad for the convenience.

It is such an ugly city, so antiquated and cold and monochrome. Far too much of it is run-down. I think it looks even worse under the light of the sun, which just now is at its zenith in the sky. Even as the heavy black gates close behind us, I can already see and hear the distasteful gestures and slurs of a drunken Nord man, who seems to have found nothing better to do than harass strangers.

He shouts at a Dunmer woman who attempts to pass by him. "Filthy gray-skin! You come here when you're not wanted, you eat our food, you pollute our city with your stink, and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks!" When she does not respond, he grabs her by the arm. "I'll bet you're an Imperial spy. Maybe I'll visit you tonight, little spy. I got ways of finding out who you really are."

She struggles to get away from him, but he is stronger. I realize that I remember him. He had tried to harass Gabriella once. I remember that it had taken all her nerve not to incinerate him in the street. And luckily for him… she was also far, far too drunk to use her magic. The memory saddens me a little: that incident aside, it had been such a fun and eventful night.

True to form, Lydia marches in the direction of this very man, but I stop her. I, myself, step forward. "You will let the lady go now, Nord," I say to him as I step between them and use a small burst of electricity to shock his hand away from her. The Nord jumps back, startled. The Dunmer moves behind me. "And you will go home. You will not bother her or any other Dunmer. Your attitude is deplorable and you should be ashamed of yourself."

He scowls, drunk and angry. "Who are you to order me around,  _Imperial_? You're just as bad as them gray-skins, coming in here and telling us Nords how to live." He moves in close. "Maybe I'll give you a little visit, too…"

A steel-gloved hand roughly shoves him in the chest, and he slams against the wall of the inn. "Wrong answer," Lydia growls.

"Oh, by Talos," he groans, "a traitor Nord. What'saa matter, sister? Drank a bit too much of that Imperial milk?" He spits at her feet. "You stink like they do."

"Who's the milk-drinker?" She fires back, furious. "You're a grown man out here harassing a bunch of women just trying to go about their business. You know who makes us Nords look bad?  _You do_."

"Alright." He drops his tankard to the ground. "Then we settle this like Nords ought. A hundred Septims says I can beat you down where 'ya stand."

" _Really_?" I say, incredulous. "You want to brawl in the street? Really?"

"Shut your dirty mouth, Imperial." He says. "C'mon, sister Nord. Or do you need to go suck more Imperial teat first?"

I can see her rage as it simmers just under the surface. She first removes one gauntlet, and then another, and hands them to me. "For that, for insulting her, I'll accept your challenge. You have just insulted a Thane of Whiterun, and now, her housecarl is going to beat you to within an inch of your life."

He raises his fists. "Try it, milk-drinker!"

The fight is quick, to say the least. She has him face-first on the ground within thirty seconds. Already, even as he struggles back to his feet from the ox-kick of a blow she landed on the side of his head, I can see the bruises forming. I give her gloves back.

"That wasn't a fair swing." He grumbles.

"You lost," she says, as she pulls her gloves back on, "give me my money."

"Yeah… here." He tosses a purse of coins at her, which she catches without taking her eyes off of him. Then he just walks away, simply and without further ado.

I just watch, still bewildered. I am reminded, yet again, that I will forever be a foreigner to this land.

"Thank you," says the Dunmer from behind me. "I'm glad to see that not every Nord is like him." Then she, too, walks away.

And I am left standing, alternating my gaze from the retreating form of the Dunmer, to Lydia, who is still watching the Nord man. " _Ahem_ ," I intone to catch her attention.

Her expression, which had in the previous instant been quite contemptuous, softens considerably when she turns back to me. "Sorry," she says with a shake of her head, and she puts her arm around my shoulders. "C'mon, you're probably freezing." And with that, she leads me into Candlehearth Hall.

 

* * *

 

"So… how did you manage it? Really?"

Ungolim raises his eyes to mine from over the rim of his teacup. When he lowers it, he says: "A block of energy flow,  _Domina_. It was taught to me by a Khajiit monk of the Whispering Fang."

"It is a kind of hand-to-hand technique?"

He nods. "Of a sort." He points to certain spots on his body. "The bodies of men and mer both have certain… junctions, if you will, that regulate the flow of life force to the limbs. These junctions, with the right amount of pressure, can be temporarily blocked. This cripples the victim for a spell."

"Hmm," I lean back and eye him with approval. "That is fascinating. You never told me you studied with the Khajiit."

"Mm, yes, in my youth." His small smile is warm with what I perceive to be nostalgia. "Elsweyr is a strange land, and its language even stranger. Worth a visit, though." He sips his tea. "If it would please you,  _Domina_ , I would be glad to teach you this technique."

I laugh. "After what it did to my housecarl, I admit I am dreadfully curious." I look out the window and note the setting sun. "The time approaches," I say as I draw my hood.

He sets his cup on the table and stands, drawing his hood as well. "I will wait for him beyond the door,  _Domina_."

I lean back in my chair as the wooden door shuts behind him with a  _click_. Earlier in the day I had sent him ahead of Lydia and I, both to arrange our lodgings as well as a rendezvous for the first contact. I intend, eventually, to elevate him to the position of Speaker; thus it would be best if he were to more regularly experience the managerial aspects of our trade. So it is that he, too, shall attend this meeting, which he has already so conveniently arranged for me in this nearly-bare office on the top floor of Candlehearth Hall.

Thankfully, I have managed to distract Lydia with a few Septims for a new sword. That, hopefully, should occupy her for at least an hour or two.

A soft knock on the door is followed by the reappearance of Ungolim, and on his heels is an elderly man in… rather ugly clothing. He seems quite nervous, quite twitchy. I quell the urge to turn up my nose; must they always be like this? My Silencer shuts the door and stands before it, watching us.

I gesture to the chair opposite me, and the man sits. "You… you're both… them? The assassins?"

"Yes," I say, my voice cold. I smooth a sheet of parchment on the table, upon which is written the Brotherhood's standard contract. "You will read this before we continue."

He glances over it, though I doubt he actually reads it. His hands shake too much. "I… I need you to kill… this… woman… s-she lives in Rorikstead… My wife. Ex-wife—"

I hold up a hand. "The payment?"

He pulls a purse from his belt. "M-My life savings." He then dumps the coins on the table. With a glance I count about 2000 Septims.

He cannot see my eyes: such is the enchantment on the hood of my cloak. It casts my face almost completely in shadow, save for my mouth. I believe this effect intimidates him further. "That is acceptable." I make no move to take the coins. Rather, in a blank space set aside in the contract, I instruct him to write as thorough a description of the target as is possible: her appearance, her habits, her line of work. Once finished, he signs it, and returns the parchment to me. I look it over. When I find it satisfactory, I say: "A messenger will be sent to you when the target is eliminated."

The man nods. "Thank… you." I gesture to Ungolim, who takes the cue and ushers the man out of the room.

When he closes the door again, I pull my hood back with an audible sigh and lean into my chair. "By Sithis, his penmanship is atrocious." I throw the completed contract on to the table. It lands softly on top of the gold.

Ungolim leans over the table and reads it with a small laugh. "Nords."

"Mm," I hum, while my fingers massage the side of my head.

 

* * *

 

About an hour passes before I hear the alacrity of Lydia's steel boots as she thunders up the stairs to the dining floor, where Ungolim and I have moved to share a small repast. She rushes over to our table and takes both my hands into hers and says: "Oh, thank the gods you're alright." And between kisses on my knuckles: "By Talos, I won't leave your side again."

"Err…" I stammer, as I begin to take notice of the fact that people are staring at us. "… Lydia… you are making a scene."

She does not let go of my hands, but she does look around us. "There's been a murder. It just happened, I mean, I heard the scream myself." She pulls my hands to her steel-plated bosom. "A woman was butchered in the street!"

Ungolim and I share a look. "I  _knew_  it!" A woman exclaims from the table next to ours. "I knew he would kill again! It was only a matter of time! It's the Butcher! I know it is!"

Lydia looks over to the crone. "The Butcher?" I finally manage to wriggle my hands from her grasp.

"Yes! He's been terrorizing Windhelm for weeks. Oh, but of course the guards can't do anything. The Stormcloaks can't do anything—" I filter her ranting out and turn my head to Ungolim.  _Fafnir?_  I ask with just my lips. He shakes his head in the negative. Then it could be no one of ours: we three are the only Brotherhood operatives currently in Windhelm.

So, a rogue butcher. I pinch the skin on the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. Lydia's next words are predictable, expected, and unsurprising: "And the Jarl? No one's gone to him directly?" And then she will turn to me and say: "Amara we should—"

"Go to the Jarl. Investigate. Find the killer. Bring the judgment of almighty Tiber Septim down upon his unworthy brow." That same familiar headache is brewing behind my eyes. It is of the ilk I suffered in the stables of Morthal. I move my hand to my aching forehead. "Ungolim, a vial of health potion, if you will."

"Of course,  _Domina_." He rises and goes down the stairs to retrieve one from my room.

All caught up in her fury, the vociferous old woman storms out of the building, presumably to go and harass a guard. I say to Lydia: "I was under the impression that you wanted to reach Ivarstead with haste?"

She seats herself in Ungolim's now-vacated chair, smiles a little at me, and once again takes one of my hands. "I do. And it gladdens me so much to know that you've changed your mind. But…" she squeezes my hand, "Can't we at least offer assistance? It's just… it's the right thing to do."

That again. "You are not a guard anymore, you know," I say. "This is not your job."

She sighs. "I know, but… Amara no one deserves a death like what I saw. That young woman… gods… whole chunks were carved out of her. She must have suffered… a lot." Then, more quietly: "Please."

My Silencer appears next to us, then. " _Domina_ ," he says, as he hands me the vial. Lydia eyes him warily; it does not surprise me that he makes her uncomfortable.

I down the potion. I suppose I could consider hiring the madman, so long as he is not also a danger to himself. I just hope that this will not involve more vampires. "We can… look into it. If you must." Once more, she brings my hand to her lips and just holds it there. I grow uncomfortable. "Fetch my cloak from our room. I at least want to finish eating." She nods, finally lets go, and runs off.

Ungolim reclaims his seat, as well as his plate. "If I may speak,  _Domina_."

"You may."

"I feel it would be wiser for us to pursue this 'Butcher' in any case. I don't like the idea of a non-affiliated killer roaming freely. It could be bad for business."

"Yes, I agree." I pick at my bread. "If we find him before my housecarl does," I say, in a lower tone, "I would have you escort him to the Sanctuary."

"Of course,  _Domina_."

 

* * *

 

The priestess of Arkay is bent low over the body of the victim. She mutters to herself: "Large diagonal cut from left shoulder…"

This place utterly stinks of death and decay. It is repulsive. I cannot even begin to speculate as to how the Order of Arkay has managed to survive for as long as it has under these conditions.

The cuts on the victim are just as gruesome as Lydia had described: chunks of flesh are hacked out of her legs and stomach. As I move closer I can see that both of her eyes have been removed, as well as the flesh of her lips. On each hand, the body is missing a pointer finger and thumb. I cross my arms. This reeks of necromancy.

But no blood has been drained from the body, which almost immediately rules out the involvement of a vampire. Either the necromancer already has enough blood at his disposal, or he has some other plan for the body parts he has harvested.

"The shape of the cuts…" I say to the priestess, who turns around quickly, startled. "They have not been made with any normal kind of blade."

"Who are you?" She replies, her voice worn and raspy.

"I am assisting with the investigation."

"Oh yeah? And by whose authority?"

"By grant of the Jarl's steward. Ask him yourself, if you must."

"Well…" She turns back to the body. "Yes. From the look of it, these cuts could only have been made with an embalming tool. But I don't know who in Windhelm would have such a thing… well, other than me, of course."

I raise one of my brows. "That does not exactly look good for you."

The crone scoffs. "I'm too busy  _tending_  the dead to spend my time making more of them. And I wouldn't very well tell you about the cuts if I had made them, now would I?" She waves her hands in a shooing motion. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I really need to get back to tending the body. A lot of work to do to prepare her for the grave."

I turn and leave, but not without a scowl. By Sithis, such disrespect. If that priestess is the killer, I think I would sooner gut her than hire her.

"Well, she was helpful," Lydia gripes once we are back outside.

"If by that you mean the body, then yes." I say to her. "This 'Butcher' harvested only specific parts of the victim. That he took the eyes is an especially telling sign, not to mention that he uses an embalming tool as his weapon. It is necromancy, without a doubt."

My housecarl gives me a strange look. "How do you know about stuff like that?"

"I  _am_  a mage, Lydia," I reply as I briefly scan the cemetery, where the body was first found. "Not to mention a decent conjurer, in my own right."

The area is marked by several blood spatters. Ungolim walks slowly about, examining them more closely. "So do you… raise dead bodies?"

"Mm, no, it is not my preference." I summon a magelight, which comes to hover over our heads. With it, I finally notice a small, but telling, trail of blood droplets leading out of the cemetery and toward a residential area. I want to groan: what a sloppy killer. "Human and mer bodies are often rather weak, and at best, will only fight with their fists or whatever weapons they may have been holding when first they died. Really, I could never grasp why necromancers prefer them over atronachs, which are infinitely more useful."

I call Ungolim's attention to the blood trail, and together, we three follow it. "He seems to have made quick work of her,  _Domina_ ," he says as we walk down the street.

"I think so too. His blade must be heavily enchanted for him to have cut through flesh and bone with such speed." I say to Lydia: "You were nearby when she screamed?"

"Yeah. You could hear it all the way from the market. By the time I got to the cemetery, she was already in pieces and the killer was gone."

"A well-prepared necromancer, then." I say, as we approach the manor at which the blood droplets end. "Though obviously not very tidy." A cursory glance at the building shows that it is deserted, and has been for perhaps a long while. I imagine that the killer, in his haste, failed to even notice the trail he was leaving as he fled the scene of the crime. I tug gently on the door, which is, of course, heavily locked. "Fine craftsmanship for an abandoned house," I say as I pull a lockpick from one of my pockets. "Ah, but its challenge is wasted on me."

The lock clicks open in a matter of seconds. "Oh," Lydia admonishes, "don't tell me you're a thief, too."

I laugh as I pull open the door. "No, but I would have been rather good at it."

The stench of the inside of the house kills my amusement in an instant. Lydia, who stands just behind me, covers her nose in disgust. Ungolim walks just a small distance ahead of us, his blade drawn. His movements, I am pleased to note, are completely silent… though this is, of course, made utterly useless by the loud clunking of Lydia's footfalls as she moves further into the room. I sigh quietly. Perhaps it would be prudent to enchant her boots.

I motion to my Silencer that he should search the upper level of the house. He nods once and creeps silently up the stairs. Lydia stays close at my side, her new sword drawn. It is of a fine make, I notice, and is of the single-edged Nordic style. I look about the room. It seems deserted, though that stink must be originating from somewhere nearby. Toward the far end stands a pair of tall wardrobes, seemingly in excellent condition, as well as a small cupboard which is littered with papers. The rancid smell grows stronger as we approach them.

I open the leftmost wardrobe and see only clothing. I press the back panel: it is nailed to the wall. Lydia searches through the papers in the cupboard. "Amara," she whispers, "there's something in here."

I glance down, see the thing to which she is referring, and quickly snatch her hand away before she can touch it. It is a magical artifact, a powerful one. I pull it from the cupboard. " _Ecastor!_ " I exclaim as it burns my hand and I drop it. It hits the floor with a small burst of sickly green light, and I finally see the glowing symbol carved on the amulet's face. By Sithis. I have read about it, and I have seen drawings of it… but to think that I am seeing it in reality… "The Necromancer's Amulet…" I say to myself as Ungolim rushes down the stairs in response to my outburst.

"Are you alright,  _Domina_?" He asks as Lydia examines the burn on my hand. I cannot pry my eyes from the Amulet.

"Look at this, Ungolim," I say, my voice tinged with wonder, "it is the genuine artifact. I cannot believe my eyes."

Now he, too, stares at it. "And the necromancer just… left it here?"

"So it would seem." I pull a pair of gloves from my pocket. The burn chafes in response, but it will have to be dealt with later. I pick up the Amulet once more. I can still feel the heat through the gloves, though now it is bearable. "I imagine our necromancer is also not skilled enough to wear it, much less keep it in close proximity to his body for very long. Even I need these gloves to touch it." It shimmers green and deadly in the darkness of the house, and even more beautifully than I could have imagined. I take one of the ragged shirts from the wardrobe on the left and wrap it about the Amulet. By no means will I let this necromancer remain in possession of it.

Ungolim opens the wardrobe on the right. As soon as he does, the smell becomes even more sickeningly pungent. I fight the urge to gag. There are no clothes in this wardrobe, but the back panel does look… interestingly loose. He looks back at me. "Shall I,  _Domina_?"

I nod my assent and he pushes it aside. Now the smell overwhelms us, and Lydia nearly keels over. " _Gods_ ," she chokes out.

I hold the sleeve of my robe over my nose and look into the room behind the false panel. It is exactly what I was expecting to find: blood-soaked bones litter a necromancer's altar. I step into the room. Hunks of rotting human flesh are piled in a wicker basket beside the altar, and next to that, there are two jugs filled nearly to the brim with congealing blood. Ice wraith teeth are pressed up against the sides of the jugs: the necromancer's attempt at keeping the blood cold, and therefore, fresh. Ungolim pulls a small leather-bound book from a shelf nailed to the wall, as well as a small number of black soul gems. These, I stow away in my satchel. They are always a delightfully welcome find.

"It's the ah… 'Butcher's' record of his progress,  _Domina_." He says as he hands the book to me.

I leaf through it briefly. "He is building a female Dead Thrall, it would seem." I glance down at the cloth-covered Amulet, still held in my hand. "Julianos only knows how he got his hands on this information. Aestus the Fire Hand supposedly destroyed it, along with Mannimarco and his Amulet, nearly 200 years ago."

"It would seem… not completely,  _Domina_." Ungolim says in a low voice, with another glance at the altar.

We exit the hidden room. Lydia waits for us beyond the false panel, unable to move anywhere nearer to the carnage. I am overcome by confusion. The records clearly state that the Patriarch destroyed the last traces of this particular kind of magic. He did not wipe out the practice of necromancy itself, just the more sinister practices developed by Mannimarco… such as what lies behind me in that room. Such as the blazingly-powerful Amulet I hold in my hand. I glare at the cloth. The records… are false.

Aestus the Fire Hand lied.

 

* * *

 

_Author's Note:_

 

_1\. I've decided to borrow a lot of names from the various personalities encountered in Oblivion. This gives me room to insert original characters into the story (especially since the initiates encountered at the end of the Dark Brotherhood questline are unnamed), while still making them look like they belong there. Brownie points for anyone who recognizes some of the names. :)_

_2\. The name of Amara's dog, Duran, is a little nod toward an anime that I love to hate: Mai HiME. I've written fics for it. Any fans of that series who caught on: Brownie points for you, too!_

_3\. The exclamation "Ecastor!" was often used by Roman women in situations of surprise or astonishment. It means: "by Castor"._


	8. Blood on the Ice, Part 2

**Chapter 8: Blood on the Ice, Part 2**

 

_13 Morning Star, 4E202_

 

Although I would never call Ulfric Stormcloak a worthy leader, he does, at the very least, maintain a fairly respectable collection of historical records in his Palace Archive.

I pore over book after book. For a large part of my childhood, I was forced to read these documents  _ad nauseam_. I always found it so incredibly dull, and besides, I knew the stories already from having been born into a family that insisted upon telling them over and over again. House  _Aestus_. I grit my teeth. They grew wealthy over the years from the constant flow of tribute sent in from all over a grateful Tamriel. The family villa grew to a palatial size. Even after the Patriarch mysteriously disappeared, his clan remained a powerful force, even to this day.

Many of his descendants became traders and wealthy businessmen. Viator Aestus, his son and only child, went on to become the next Arch-Mage of the Arcane University.

Viator's daughter, Florentia Aestus, was a highly respected General in the Imperial Legion. And Viator's other children, though they never achieved such illustrious titles, nevertheless maintained control over various undercurrents of power throughout the Empire. Much of it had to do with real estate and banking.

It is a family line of classic, wealthy nobles. No blood could be more blue, no crime record could be more spotless… other than the eventual madness, of course.

That is, at least, according to the documents scattered before me.

Now, the cloth-wrapped evidence in my satchel points toward what seems to be a carefully-constructed, and fabricated, history. Whether in whole or in part, I do not know, but something about these documents now stinks of secrecy.

No one knows what happened to Aestus the Fire Hand. They say that, one day, some strange piece of correspondence came across his desk at the Arcane University. He went on a— _supposedly_ —short journey so that he might respond to it… but he was never seen again.

I scowl. Why did he lie about the Amulet? Did he also lie about Mannimarco?

The archives before me say nothing further on the estate of the Patriarch. There certainly is no mention of the Necromancer's Amulet. I lean back in my chair, defeated. "Can I bring you anything?" Lydia says, her concern for me etched on her face. She sits next to me. She had offered her help, but a large portion of these documents are in my own dialect, which she does not speak.

I look at her for a moment. My noisy, lovely guard. Without Ungolim's presence, and after the incident in Dawnstar, I find myself more willing to reciprocate her affection, or to at least make an attempt. I show this by resting my head on her shoulder. "A stimulant, perhaps." I close my eyes, briefly. "I am exhausted."

"If you're tired, then you need to sleep," she whispers against my hair. I hear her small smile in her voice. "I could… take you to bed, if you like…"

I laugh a little. "You would enjoy that, no?"

She lightly kisses the crown of my head. "I think I would."

It is well past the midnight hour. When I came in here to do my research, I had beforehand sent Ungolim to further investigate this murderer. My hope is that, if he is successful, he can whisk the man away to Dawnstar before the city guards or Lydia can catch wind of his identity. Aside from exploring this now-apparent discrepancy in my family history, my next order of business is to find out how in the name of Sithis this 'Butcher' acquired such a priceless artifact. Perhaps… he found the grave of my ancestor? I sigh. The idea is just too uncanny.

And still I must meet with that other contact. Perhaps a few hours of sleep would be beneficial. "Very well," I say to my housecarl, "you may take me to bed."

She leads me out of the Archives. The mess I have left, I decide, can be taken care of by the archivist in the morning. The night is incredibly cold, and a light snow is falling. Though our walk to Candlehearth Hall is short, I am near-frozen by the time we are both through the door. Lydia, of course, is not nearly as affected by the cold as I. I briefly find myself envying her Nord blood.

Our shared room is the largest available in the inn; I would have it no other way. My thoughts are bound yet to my evening's research. I am just as much a scion of this family as any other who bears the Patriarch's name publicly: driven to the finer things, and toward reliable wealth, the machinations of my kin have ever been in the name of advancing, and safeguarding, our own interests. Ah, but the defining factor has always been that we work fully within the law. I smirk, and yet it is bitter.  _I_  mark the place where that unspoken rule has changed.

So many of those fools have grown too fat on their own good fortune. They forget the magic that runs so deep in our blood.

"Amara," Lydia calls gently as she shuts the door to our room behind her. "You're going to give yourself early wrinkles if you keep making that face."

Broken away from my thoughts, I make an effort to neutralize my expression. "Pardon me."

She approaches me, so very close. Without her armor, she is so soft and warm to embrace. She is like nothing I have ever experienced before. "Tell me what's bothering you."

"I would rather not." I just want to close my eyes. This new information is disturbing me so much more than it should.

She presses her lips to my forehead, and does not move them. "Well, can I take a guess?"

The irony strikes me that she is, quite possibly, the only person in Skyrim who could guess accurately. A small smile comes forth, once again, to my face; still rueful, still a little bitter. The woman who knows too little… also knows far too much. "If you wish."

"You're upset because history got something seriously wrong about your ancestor, who was supposed to be this great and honorable hero. The fact that you found a hole in that story means that someone lied, and that there's more to the story than we might think. You haven't told me much about your childhood, but if I can guess, you've been spoon-fed the same stories over and over. Seeing that Amulet… thing… it's bothering you. A lot."

I sigh. "Yes, that encompasses most of it."

She pulls me toward the bed, where we lay in the muted, flickering candlelight. "Tell me the rest."

There is a fray in the stitching of her tunic. I run my finger in small circles over the loose thread, and make a note, in the back of my mind, to acquire some finer clothing for her. This story shall be told with reluctance, for it is never one which I would choose to dwell upon for very long.

"I grew up in a noble house. All that I wanted, it was handed me. All that I demanded, it was done for me. Even now, I find it difficult to bow my head to any other person, and it… has gotten me into trouble, from time to time." I reflect, briefly, on my various clashes with Astrid. She never tolerated my behavior, my insubordination. She would often threaten to bathe in my blood. This reaction to me, I think, this unwillingness to let me rule over her, is what made me want her. It was a matter of conquering. It always has been.

"In the Imperial City, House Aestus is still a monumental power. There are even small sects that worship us as the descendants of a god. We ignore these groups, generally, because they are utterly mad… even so, they exist. My mother traces her line directly to the Patriarch, as we call him. My father married into the House, but he was a powerful man even before he allied himself with us. From the day of my birth, I was trained to be a public figure. I received instruction in a wide variety of skills, in keeping with that saying of the Patriarch. I was, as you said, 'spoon-fed' the same stories, over and over. I was raised to believe that we are ascended men… not gods,  _per se_ , ah… so to say, but above most men in our character."

"I remember my mother's teachings, almost verbatim. That I must sit  _this_  way, eat  _that_  way. Dress like  _so_ , talk like  _so_. I speak four languages, not including the native dialect of my clan, which differs from what we might call 'standard' Tamrielic. My life was planned for me. I was to master an Art of Magic, an Art of Stealth, and an Art of the Warrior, I was to finish my formal instruction in the histories and the arts, and then I was to marry, bear more scions for my clan, and begin the cycle over again."

I pull lightly on the loose thread. "This is the paradox of raising noble children, though. Their wants are never denied, and yet, they are expected to follow orders." A small, bitter laugh. "I was one such child. I was rebellious, and the older I became, so did my rebellion grow stronger. I loved my studies, but I did not love my familial duty. My mother was furious when I told her that I wanted to join the Synod, which I did. She tried, nonetheless, to influence my path, even from beyond the walls of the Arcane University. I grew angrier, and angrier, until one day, in a fury, I burned all my materials and fled. I fled to Skyrim."

I look at my housecarl, who listens yet quietly. "And still, none of them know where I am. I imagine I have been disowned at this stage." I sigh. "I wish I had not burned all that research, in hindsight… I was nearly finished with my thesis on the Dwemer."

"So… Okay, so…" Lydia responds, finally, "you're angry that you were forced through all that ah… propriety?… when it might be based on some pretty big lies?"

"Yes," I reply. "In simple terms, something stinks of… hypocrisy. I was harshly judged when I was young, for many things. First was my preference for my own sex. I do enjoy the company of men, but I enjoy women more… that, however, does not produce children. Next was my preference for knowledge, and books, over socialization. I do not like people. I do not like talking to them, generally. I especially loathe  _pretending_  to like them, as I was so insistently taught to do. But… worst of all was their…  _insistence_ … that I, like all my kin, emulate the Patriarch in every way. My mother would say: 'There is no  _I_ , there is  _Aestus_.' That name, Lydia, is my burden."

"That's why you never use it?"

"Yes, and it is why I tell you to call me Amara."

She hugs me tighter. "Are you afraid that they'll ever come looking for you?"

I huff. "No. Like I said, I have probably been disowned by now."

"Well, how do you know that for sure?"

"The East Empire Company, of which my family owns a sizeable portion, maintains a banking house in Solitude. For about a month after my disappearance from Cyrodiil, I was able to access a vast amount of funds from this house by means of a family password. The bankers there are sworn to secrecy, you see, so they could not inform my kin in the Imperial City that it was  _I_  who partook in these funds. Not only that, but the account is so large that even my withdrawals, which to the common man are a life-altering fortune, were still not large enough to cause great concern."

I scowl. "Even so, after that first month, the password was suddenly changed. Mind you, it has not changed in fifty years. This told me that someone in the Imperial City wanted to remove my access, wherever I might be in the world. My cousin, perhaps. I doubt it was my mother or brother. Ah, but, to my credit, I had saved most of what I took in a separate account of my own, using a smaller banking system located solely within Skyrim. I was thus able to comfortably establish myself here, and yet maintain anonymity."

"Hmm." She hums. "Why Skyrim, specifically?"

I think back on that wild, furious escape. "I left the Imperial City in the dead of night… only a few other times had I ever walked outside its walls. I had been too angry to be afraid, and I just rode blindly north. Some impulse brought me to Skyrim. I was never sure what the source of that impulse was, until now."

"What was it?"

I close my eyes again, and sigh. I am growing sleepy. "I am  _Dovahkiin_."

 

* * *

 

A beggar calls out to me from under the shade of the cold, dirty city walls. I glance in his direction. The wretch is covered in grime, his hair is filthy, his clothes ragged. I am about to pass by him without acknowledging his call, when I notice, after a moment, that the beggar is none other than Fafnir.

"Please, m'lady!" He says in an impressively worn and raspy voice. "I ask for but a Septim! Just a Septim for my bread!"

I approach him with a frown on my face. "A coin, beggar, though you do nothing to deserve it."

He grins widely and scrambles for the coin which I have tossed to the ground. "A thousand blessings, m'lady! A thousand blessings!" He pulls a dirty piece of paper from his pocket. "A gift. My own art. The gods bless your charity."

I take the paper with a show of reluctance. On it there is what, to the untrained eye, looks like nothing but a pattern of whorls and lines. To my eyes, and the eyes of my Brothers, it is a message:

 

_Contact arranged. Imperial male. Candlehearth office. Sunset._

_Still investigating Butcher._

— _Ungolim_

 

"What kind of inane garbage is this?" I say angrily as I burn the paper in my hand. "Find yourself some useful work, filthy lowlife!" And with that, I stalk away with obvious irritation in my step.

"Really, did you have to be so cruel? He probably has a disease of the mind," Lydia says as she follows me down the street toward the market.

"His hands still function," I grumble. "I disdain beggars."

After a pause, she says, quietly: "Not everyone has had your comforts, Amara."

I look back at her, my hand on the knob of the door to the Apothecary. "I gave him the damn coin, did I not?"

I enter the shop. She follows a moment later.

 

* * *

 

"But you really do have such a lovely form, miss," the tailor says to Lydia in a doting voice. "Are you sure you want to hide it under such masculine clothing?"

"Is this… really necessary?" My housecarl whines to me. "My own clothes are just fine!"

"I think the green doublet looks better, though it should be dyed a touch darker," I say to the tailor as I consciously ignore Lydia's protests. "And the fur overlay is a bit much." It has always been a source of irritation for me, this convention in Nordic fashion for fur. It looks so… gaudy. "And I want to see those leather trousers again. The black ones."

"Yes, ma'am." She heads back toward the main part of the shop. "Are you… sure you don't want to try just one dress?"

Lydia visibly blanches at the idea. I say: "The trousers, please."

"Amara, this is ridiculous. I look like a milk-drinking princeling," she says as she looks this way and that at her reflection. "My other clothes are functional. They fit well under my armor."

"You do not wear your armor every moment of every day." I approach her from behind and trail a finger down her spine. "And you do look… so handsome dressed like this."

She raises an eyebrow as she watches me in the mirror. "Handsome, eh?"

My arms go about her waist, and my fingers splay over her lower stomach. Her slow smile in response to the contact is… maddening. "Pretty?"

She shrugs. "Either or." My fingers massage her lightly, just above the pelvic bone. Her head leans back to rest on my shoulder, her knees go a little weak, her eyes close. It is for reasons like this that I cannot help but to love women: there are so many pathways to her pleasure, and all of them are so lovely to behold. "… Here…?"

"You are too dashing, my princeling," I whisper into her ear. She makes a pleasured sound, low in her throat.

"The trousers you've… asked for… ma'am…" The tailor stumbles over her words as she reenters the room. From the corner of my eye I can see Lydia's beet-red face reflected in the mirror. "And ah… a messenger from the palace just came in with this note for you…" She hands me the paper. I still have not let Lydia go, and I can all but feel the heat of her embarrassment as it rises off her skin. "Do you… need anything else, ma'am?"

"Just what I have ordered. Make your highest priority, if you would."

"Very good… Yes, everything will be ready by tomorrow." She backs out of the room. "You can just… take your time, then." She pulls the room's privacy curtain with haste, effectively blocking us from view.

Lydia releases the breath she had been holding. I look over the note. It is fine paper, sealed with the Jarl's wax. I release my housecarl and crack it open.

 

_To the esteemed Dragonborn, Thane of Whiterun,_

_The Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak cordially requests your presence at his dining table, this evening, upon the setting of the sun. Please send a prompt response to his Steward._

_—Jorleif, Steward to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak_

 

" _Merda_ ," I mutter to myself. I have to meet with the contact. That is of much greater importance. But I cannot very well ignore the Jarl's summons, especially not now that I have a…  _title_. I scowl.

"What is it?" Lydia asks me as she changes back into her own clothes.

I walk over to a low table, upon which lies a quill and an inkwell. "A dinner invitation. It seems the Jarl has caught wind of my presence in his city." I am sure she can hear the distaste in my tone.

"Dinner with Ulfric Stormcloak, huh." Her grin is wicked. "Maybe he'll try to romance you. Win the heart of the noble Dragonborn for his  _noble_  cause."

"That is not even a worthy jest, my dear," I huff as I write a short note in the margin of the Jarl's summons in Brotherhood cipher:

 

_U:_

_Handle the contact. I trust you._

 

I scrape the seal off with a fingernail, and fold the note several times over so as to make it compact as possible.

"Are you gonna send a reply?" Lydia says as she finishes dressing herself.

"Yes. I imagine the messenger is still waiting for us." And true enough, once my housecarl and I exit the fitting room of the tailor shop, there he stands. I toss him a coin and say: "Tell the Jarl that we will be along at the appointed time."

"Dragonborn," says the messenger with a small bow of his head, "the Jarl requests your presence alone. His housecarl will also not be in attendance."

"Told you…" comes Lydia's sly whisper, from just behind me.

 _By Sithis_. "… Fine," I snap. This is exactly what I came to Skyrim in order to escape. As the messenger turns to deliver my response, I am overcome with the desire to send him back to the Jarl as a mangled corpse. Now that, I muse, would be a reply better fitting my opinion of him, or the very idea of his courtship. But I let the boy go, and he runs off to the ruin of my evening.

I pay the tailor and we leave. Once again, on the way back to Candlehearth Hall, we pass by Fafnir the Beggar. I do not look at him, but drop the folded-up summons at his feet.

 

* * *

 

The moons are out in their brightest glory tonight. Their light bathes the room artfully, and combines with the flickering candles to a quite intimate effect.

To any other woman, I think the Jarl would look attractive in an atmosphere such as this. Just as well, this very atmosphere brings out the best of my courtly training. I am seated, posed and primed perfectly as a statue. Even my normally loquacious Lydia found herself speechless when first I strode from the washroom, dressed for dinner.

As I sit here, I think on the hunger in her eyes with genuine relish. The nature of her thoughts had been clear enough that she need not speak them aloud, and it delighted me to see just how thoroughly I could entice her with my appearance alone.

I sip delicately at the wine the Jarl has poured for me. He, too, exhibits those same hungry eyes… though they lack the same measure of artistic appreciation so apparent in the gaze of my housecarl. "I am glad to have you here at my table, Dragonborn." His voice is deep, his accent the classic Nordic.

"You have made a fine presentation, Jarl Ulfric." My voice is smooth, my countenance stately. Deadly. "Though I will presume, if you will excuse me, that I have not been invited here merely to socialize." Every movement, every expression of mine, is calculated, seductive.

And it works. "Yes, though I would discuss that with you after our meal." He leans forward, slightly. "First, I wish to tell you that when I heard the Dragonborn is a woman, I could never have expected her to be so stunning… if you will forgive my forwardness."

"Jarl Ulfric!" I laugh delicately and bring up a graceful hand to cover my mouth. "You flatter me."

"Flattery is only for the undeserving. For the genuinely worthy, it is merely an observation." He smiles. I see his easy confidence.

Dinner passes in much this way, with his pleasantries and my evasions. To his credit, his knowledge of the arts is rather respectable, and we spend a large part of the meal on this topic. After dessert, he invites me to walk with him on the upper floors, where he maintains a gallery. Here, too, the atmosphere is purposefully romantic.

He finally discusses his business as we walk among the various pieces. "There is so much beauty to be found in this land. It breaks my heart to think that there are forces that seek to stamp it out." He turns to me. "Surely you see it. You have lived here long enough."

"There is, yes." My thoughts stray again to Lydia… and to Astrid. "Though I am a foreigner, there are many things I cherish here."

"Yes, that was another surprise for me, as well, to hear that the Dragonborn hails from Cyrodiil. Tell me…" he moves in a little closer, "did you leave Cyrodiil out of dissatisfaction with the Empire?"

"No organization is perfect," I reply tactfully.

"Ah, but, surely you have felt greater freedom in Skyrim. Here you may worship Talos, or Tiber Septim, as you would likely call him."

"Mm," I hum demurely as I train my eyes on a painting, "I admit, Jarl Ulfric, that as a mage I lean more toward the worship of Julianos. Though I do, of course, appreciate the necessary fervor of others."

"So then, Dragonborn, you see why I and my men fight?"

We move to another painting. "I presume this is the motive behind your invitation?"

"It is, Dragonborn. The Empire has grown weak. It is run by elves. You yourself prove the weakness of the Empire simply by virtue of your presence in Skyrim. I believe it to be a sign from Talos, your existence here." Again, he comes too close, and this time, he takes my hand. "If you will allow me, Dragonborn, I would court you. A bond between you and I would bring the people hope."

"Ah…" Gently, politely as possible, I take my hand from his. "Your proposal honors me, Jarl Ulfric, but…"  _But I would sooner marry a Giant and herd mammoths for the rest of my days_. "But surely you could choose a better partner than I."

"I can think of no one better, Dragonborn. I admit, even now, your beauty charms me. I assure you this would not only be a marriage for political gain."

 _You only met me two hours ago_ … "Jarl Ulfric, again I will say that you honor me, but with respect, I must decline."

He pauses a moment, and his expression grows cold. "There is… more to this proposal than you may think. Come, there is another painting I would show you." He leads me down a corridor of statues, many of them originating from Dwemer ruins. I am sure that a younger incarnation of myself would have insisted upon stopping to study them.

At the end stands a painting of a man that any citizen of the Empire would instantly recognize: "… Aestus…"

"Yes." His arms are crossed. "That red hair says much of your patrician lineage, Lady Amara Leone Aestus. It is the same as that of your grandfather, whom I had pleasure of meeting during the Great War. The materials you left scattered all over my library last night we also very telling." I feel the weight of the dagger at my thigh, and the magic as it begins to creep to my fingers. "It is my understanding that you wish to remain hidden from your kin. You have done well so far: only I was able to put the pieces together, and that was only after seeing you tonight."

"So… no one but you knows," I say, my eyes on the painting, my voice venomous. How could I have possibly known about his acquaintance with Grandfather?  _Sithis keep me._

"Yes, and it will remain that way if you reconsider my proposal."

Fury floods my veins. I am driven to turn him to ash, no matter the fact that I will almost immediately be accused of his murder. I bite my lip as a better idea comes to mind. I turn to him, and smile. "Well, you  _are_  clever, Jarl Ulfric. It seems I have no choice, then, but to give you your due consideration." He inclines his head, pleased. "But I would ask this of you, for I am sure that you, of all people, could understand: I have been called to High Hrothgar so that I might train as the Dragonborn. Surely you see the necessity of my going there."

"Of course I do, Lady Aestus." My name on his lips is infuriating. "It is part of the necessary path for the Dragonborn. I would be content to announce our engagement upon your return."

I step back from him. "Then, Jarl Ulfric, it is time for me to take my leave." I straighten my shoulders. "I bid you a good evening."

"And you, Lady Aestus." His smile is one of victory.

 

* * *

 

Ungolim is awaiting me as I stride purposefully off the palace grounds. He falls into step with me like a shadow. "I have a gift for you,  _Domina_."

"A gift?"

"Yes, one that I think will please you. If you will follow me…" I nod my assent, and he leads me to the eastern side of the city. We stop in front of a large and rather old building. A worn sign above the door reads:  _Calixto's House of Curiosities_. Ungolim unlocks the door with a key, ushers me inside, and casts a magelight once he shuts the door behind us. In the middle of the floor lies an Imperial man, alive, but bound and gagged.

I smirk. "A reprieve from my bad mood, dear Silencer?" I gesture to myself with a measure of sarcasm. "I am afraid this dress is a little too pretty for dirty work."

" _Domina_ ," he says, his voice tinged with equally dark humor. "May I introduce the Butcher?"

"An Imperial, is he?" I pull up a chair. "I was envisioning an elf, actually. Maybe an Altmer."

"Yes, well, I believe  _Domina_  will be interested to know that this man is also our second contact. Imagine my surprise when he revealed his machinations to me."

I lean back. "Did he tell you his goal?"

"Ah, no, not directly. Though a little searching did reveal his more… personal… journal." He hands it to me.

I flip to the last page. "Oh my." I look at the Butcher. "Your sister…? You write as if you were… ah,  _very_ close to one another." To Ungolim: "Who did he want us to kill?"

"Oh,  _Domina_ , I shan't spoil your gift. I will answer if that is what you wish, though I think you may find it much more fascinating to ask him directly."

I raise a brow, but gesture for him to remove the gag. "So, Butcher, who is this elusive target?"

"You people are insane! Do you treat all your clients like this? Hog-tie and humiliate them?" He struggles a little, though of course it is useless. "My contract was going to bring you fools a fortune, but after this you can take it and shove it up your ass! I'll kill her myself!"

"You failed to answer my question."

He grits his teeth. "The Dragonborn, you idiot! I was going to pay you a fortune to kill the Dragonborn. She's perfect for reconstructing my dear Lucilla: an Imperial woman, and with so much power! But you people just threw that opportunity straight to Oblivion, mark my words!"

I try not to meet eyes with Ungolim. I fear that, if I do, the laughter I feel fluttering in my chest and throat may become uncontrollable. "The… Dragonborn." I bite my tongue a moment to stop the outburst. "You performed the Black Sacrament against… the Dragonborn. Do you… Do you even know what she looks like?"

"Hmph," he grumbles, "I'm sure it won't be hard to find out. She  _is_  famous, after all."

I grip at my dress. A small burst escapes from my Silencer behind me, as much as he tries to control himself. I admit I am in not much better a condition. "Should be… real easy…"

This causes Ungolim to snicker uncontrollably through his hand. I cannot look at him, I swear it, I cannot… "What's so  _fucking_  funny?" The Butcher shouts.

Ungolim and I burst in unison. I cannot stop it. I tried. Then I make the mistake of looking back at him, and that makes it so much worse. We are both doubled over. His face is red, and that itself is a hilarious sight. He props himself on a table. "I guess… I guess we should… find the Dragonborn!"

More laughter, to the point where I feel I can no longer breathe. Tears form in my eyes. "But… where ever shall we look?"

He tries to control it, but only ends up choking on it. "You… You never know! She could be… right in front of you!"

"Yes, the Dragonborn! What's wrong with you people?" He thrashes again, and again, it is useless.

Ungolim and I must take a few more moments to settle ourselves, though I, personally, am finding it difficult. "Oh, Sir Butcher…" I say, still laughing, "You amuse me greatly, as we have made… obvious. You are such an intriguing character, I must say."

" _Domina_ ," Ungolim says politely, still trying to catch his breath, as he proffers my satchel. "I have brought this, just in case you also wished to ask him about it."

"Ah, yes." I take it. "I commend your foresight, my dear." I pull out the Amulet, still wrapped in its cloth. No matter: the Butcher's eyes widen immediately, for he recognizes its energy. "I  _did_  want to question you about this, as a matter of fact."

"Where did you find that?" He shouts. "You have no idea what it's capable of! Put it down!"

"Quite the contrary, dear Sir Butcher, I know exactly what it is, and what it is for." I lean forward, my gaze predatory. "The real question is: where did  _you_  find it?"

He sneers at me. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, assassin."

"Try me."

"Why should I? I'm not going to let you take it."

I raise a brow. "You are not exactly… in a position to say what I can and cannot do, dear Butcher."

"To hell with you!"

I stand and kick him hard in the stomach. He coughs, his pain audible, and thrashes as he tries to bring air back into his body. "I have been kind so far. Remember that."

He finally manages to pull air into his lungs with hard gasps. I position myself to kick him again. "Wait!" He chokes out. "Don't… just…" More coughing.

"My patience runs thin."

"Sheogorath." He coughs again. "He… gave it to me."

"Do you take me for a fool?" I am becoming frustrated, and my humor dissipates. "Ungolim, my dear, too many of his fingers look unbroken."

"Please! No! I mean it! It was Sheogorath!" He screams as my Silencer breaks his thumb.

"A daedra, was it?" I say him. He does nothing but sob. I sigh. "Ungolim."

His pointer finger. He screams again. "Yes! Yes!"

"Ungolim." The Butcher's scream pierces the air and his body thrashes under the weight of my Silencer. "My, I hope you took care to soundproof the building."

"But of course,  _Domina_."

"So, Butcher," I say as I crouch beside him. He is sobbing uncontrollably. "Still, it was Sheogorath?"

"Yes!" He chokes out between sobs. "In… In Solitude!"

"Well, that is  _curious_ … Ungolim." He screams. I watch the trails of the fluids that dribble from his eyes and nose. "And, pray tell, under what circumstances would a  _Daedric Prince_  appear to a sniveling shit like you?"

"He just laughed…" the Butcher cries, pathetically. "That's all he did… was laugh…"

I stand. "What an interesting story." A small pause. "Such a strange story. You are not lying to me, now, Mr. Butcher… are you?"

"No! I swear it! I swear…" More sobs. "Please…"

I take a short walk around the room. "Such interesting artifacts you have here. It is a shame I never took the tour. Many interesting… strange… stories here, I am certain." My smile grows ever the more sinister. "Would you like to hear an interesting story, Sir Butcher?"

His only response is his continued sniveling.

"Your eagerness flatters me. But Ungolim, do help him get more excited." My Silencer breaks his small finger, and his scream once again pierces the room. His sobbing renews itself in force. "It is the story…" I say loudly, over his noise, "of a man who tried to contract the Dark Brotherhood to kill the Dragonborn. But I will tell you, Sir, that misfortune is his lot!" Again I crouch down and move my face close to his. "For what he did not know… is that it is the Dragonborn herself whom he has contracted, and that he has made a very… grave… mistake."

The Butcher's eyes go wide. "Please! Mercy! Please…!"

"Ungolim," I purr as I sit back down in my chair and the Butcher's renewed screams fill the room. "This was such a thoughtful gift."

 

* * *

 

I stand outside the Butcher's museum. Thankfully, my clothes are still pristine. My Silencer was not so fortunate, however, and so must stay there a little while longer to clean himself up.

"Fafnir," I say, my voice low.

A city guard approaches from the shadows. "Sithis guide your blade, Listener."

"And yours, Brother. I have a job for you." I pull a letter from my pocket. "Take this to Nazir. You must do this with haste, do you understand?"

"Yes, Listener. I will go this minute."

"Good. Dismissed."

He disappears back into the shadows. The fact that I cannot even hear his running footfalls gladdens me: Nazir seems to have quite a talent for choosing new recruits.

Good that the inn is only a short walk away: this cold is just unbearable. I draw the hood of my cloak tighter about my face, glad for its shadowing effect. Best not to be seen near to what will be  _quite_  the gruesome surprise for the guards in the morning. I sneer. He kept claiming it was Sheogorath, even until the very end. But what in the name of Sithis could possibly drive a Daedric Prince to give that sniveling idiot an artifact as powerful as the Necromancer's Amulet?

 _Then again_ … The thought comes to me: he is the Mad God. Of course he would be involved in something so strange. Of course he would possess the Amulet for no good reason, and he would give it away for no good reason.

I suppose… it makes sense only because it does  _not_  make sense. And even then, no part of this little adventure has sufficed to explain  _why_  the Amulet still exists at all.

It is far too frustrating to dwell upon, and by the time I am back inside Candlehearth Hall and feeling the welcome warmth of the place seep into my bones, I am driven to put it aside for the moment. This becomes especially true when I enter my room to find Lydia still awaiting me in silent vigil. She raises her head when I shut the door. "Were you praying, Lydia? You may continue, I will not disturb you."

"No… I'm finished." I come close to her, and she stands and pulls me into an embrace. "I was starting to worry… you've been gone a while."

By the gods, she is so warm. My skin is still like ice, and she rubs her hands up and down my arms to reduce the cold. "Have I?"

"Yeah." Something about her manner is… off. Awkward. "I was starting to wonder if, ah, maybe you did end up finding the Jarl… charming."

I laugh privately, quietly. She is  _jealous_. In a way I find it rather endearing. "He requested my hand in marriage."

"He…" The nervous energy rises from her like a cloud. "Ah, I knew he would." A pause. "So… what did you say? I mean, you were gone so long. Did you—"

"Say yes?" I cut her off. She looks at me with an apparent apprehension.  _So jealous!_  "Of course not, you silly thing. I spent most of the evening trying to, mm, politely deflect his advances. It was, how shall I say, tedious work."

"Oh," she says, but her relief is clear with that one sound.

"Nonetheless, it would be best for us to depart in the morning. He was not terribly… happy… with my refusal."

"But what about that murderer?"

I kiss her cheek. "I gave the Steward all the information we had gathered on him. Interestingly enough, he said that he found the writing in the journal to be very familiar, and that is a good sign. It should be left to the city guard, now, and we should depart as soon as is possible. I am not currently well within the Jarl's favor, which may negatively affect my personal safety here. It is a matter of priorities, you see."

She nods, though reluctantly. "Alright, I… I understand. Your safety should come first."

"Right," I say gently, as my fingers come to lightly massage her shoulders. I am amazed, still, by this honest desire I so strongly feel simply to caress her, and to share her warmth. I have grown to enjoy the quiet that we share between us. It is different, but welcome. "My, Lydia, you are quite tense."

A small laugh. "Yeah, sorry, I…" She presses her forehead to mine. "I'm constantly plagued with the feeling that something's not right. It makes me worry for you." She pulls me in tighter. "You're going to give me gray hairs, my Thane."

It is a boon that her eyes are closed: I fear she would find the frown on my face rather telling. The feeling that drives it is one of emptiness. I do not know what to say to her, so I opt to kiss her instead. She returns my kiss, with fervor and with want.

Her fingers toy with the ties of my dress. She breaks our kiss, briefly, so that she might look with appreciation upon my form. "Can I tell you something?" She whispers, as her lips move to my neck.

"Yes," I reply with equal softness. Her hands creep slowly, maddeningly slowly, down my back, and come to gently cup my backside. Her lips move to the junction of my neck and shoulder.

"When I saw you earlier… by Talos… I have never seen a woman more beautiful." She kisses my collar, then moves to the exposed flesh just above my breasts. My fingers weave into her hair. "The sight of you nearly drove me mad. For hours I've been waiting here, just wanting you so  _badly_."

"Oh?" I sigh with pleasure as she lovingly unties the fastenings of my dress and follows each new show of nude flesh with a kiss. The delicate fabric falls to the floor in a muted rush, and she, falling to her knees before me, presses her lips to my lower stomach. Her touch is like worship. I pull her back up and kiss her deeply, and with eager desire. "Show me how much," I whisper against her mouth.

She leads me by the hand toward the bed, her eyes never leaving mine. I am nearly nude but for my smallclothes, which she removes after a moment, and with delicate, genuine appreciation. With her gentle guidance, I am made to sit upon the edge of the bed. Again, she kneels before me. "You too, my dear," I say, my voice low, as my fingers once again find her hair. "Your clothes."

With a simple grace, she fulfills my request. Each piece falls to the floor until she, too, is equally nude before me. We move back on the bed, and her lips come softly down on to my flesh. When she reaches my legs, she parts them with a gentle nudge, and then moves back a little to regard me quietly.

For the first time since my adolescence, I feel… shy under my partner's gaze. She looks at me, and upon those areas of my body deemed private, with something akin to awe, with desire, and with such reverence. Never before in my life have I been so eagerly… beheld.

"Why do you stare?" I whisper, as that unwelcome nervousness pokes me with its icy finger. The impulse arises in me to roll her over, to block her view and take control.

She trails kisses on the inside of my thigh, moving up until her lips brush lightly upon the source of my pleasure. I gasp aloud at the electricity of the contact and the way it combines with this curious sensation of exposure. "Because I want to," she says softly. The puffs of air from her words further awaken my flesh. "Because I should." With lips and tongue, she complements her words with loving action. I lay on my back and gladly accept all that she will give me.

The air around my skin grows hotter with each stroke of her tongue, and with each sure-handed caress. She grasps my rocking hips as I grab her by the hair, as if to pull her even closer. My head throws back and I call to her as all my being centers upon the wave she urges to build and pulse.

And she watches this, what she does to me. Her eyes focus on the quickening rise and fall of my breasts, the way the air and my heady arousal make my skin pebble. Her movements hasten as my hips rock harder, as I feel my muscles clench and release and I reach my height, calling to her, she who watches my expressions so intensely.

She watches still as I fall from it, and as the pleasure comes to rest in my loins and deepens to languor. Then she kisses me there, a gentle kiss, and trails more kisses up my body until she reaches my lips, which she meets with such unbridled passion. She lowers to her elbows so that our bodies press together, and in her kiss I taste my own self.

Our tongues swirl and our legs tangle, and I can feel her against my thigh, and how ready and desirous she is. I feel how she makes small movements against me, seeking friction to relieve it. I press my hands on her shoulders and give a small push to encourage her.

She exhales a hard puff of air through her nose. "Mm, no." She smiles against my lips as she reaches down, slowly, to where I still ache for her. "I'm not done with you just yet."

 

* * *

 

_15 Morning Star, 4E202_

 

The road to Ivarstead stretches yet long before us.

I am thankful that the sky is clear, at least, and that we have not encountered any terribly formidable obstacles in the course of our travel. We had left Windhelm at first light, well and before any of the cityfolk could have begun to question the disappearance of one Calixto Corrium.

Ungolim and I had been careful, however. We left a plethora of evidence for the guards to discover—and, thankfully, none of it is fabricated—which will quickly damn him as the Butcher. This fact alone should encourage the city guard not to make a very earnest attempt to investigate why he died so horrifically.

The private justice of a citizen is often a useful cover for a Dark Brother to assume.

My ruminations are much more focused, however, on the letter I had sent to Dawnstar on the night previous. Addressed directly to Nazir, it calls for the services of two assassins. With it, I have invoked an ancient and long-held tradition among the Listeners of the Dark Brotherhood, known simply as  _The Hunt_. The Listener has deemed it necessary to send her Brothers a-hunting, for there is a target of high profile who must learn an all-important lesson: that the Listener is never to be crossed, and never to be threatened or disrespected, whether the fool perpetrator knows her identity or not.

My letter encourages the creativity of my hunters, and states that their Listener awaits word of success with eagerness. The hunters will, of course, be very well rewarded for their service, and will have the high regard of their Listener for the remainder of their careers.

Ungolim is well aware of my summons, of course. I glance over at him. He rides a dark horse and his heavy black cloak flutters behind him in the wind. I am not sure if the stern expression on his face is the result of poorly-hidden displeasure with me for discluding him from The Hunt, or if it is a physical reaction to the tightness of the knot into which he has tied his sable hair.

In any case, his mouth has been stuck in a frown since I told him about my letter. He is, perhaps, too dedicated a servant for his own good.

The icy wind bites into my skin, even through the many padded layers I wear underneath my cloak. My hands, armored as they are by my thick, oiled gloves, still feel as if they are frozen in place as they numbly grip Shadowmere's reins. I now glance over to Lydia, who wears less padding than my Silencer or I, and yet seems well at ease in this awful, bitter weather. The humor strikes me that she would probably perish under the heat of the Cyrodilic summers.

I dislike these roads. They are old, worn away, and in desperate need of renovation. I gripe at the miserable power shifts occurring in this barren tundra of a country: the Empire did these provincial Jarls such a service when first they came through here to build proper roads. The Nords, it would seem, have failed to notice the economic benefits to be found in centralized power, for they, in their small-mindedness, now neglect the logistical duties which the Empire so readily took on for them. Now, these dilapidated roads do much to slow our progress to our destination.

I huddle further into my cloak and do my best to hide my face from the cold.

Lydia rides up beside me, her expression ominous. "Amara I think there's… something on the wind. Bad, maybe. Something. I don't know, but it's something."

Stiff with the chill, I reply to her: "That you can sense anything at all in this miserable weather is uncanny." The rush in my ears makes it difficult for me to hear, as-is. "What sort of 'something'?"

She furrows her brow further, her eyes to the sky before and above us. "… It's a…"

Then we all hear it: a fury-filled, ear-shattering roar.  _Ah_. Yes, now attuned, my attention drawn, I feel him coming. He is a small distance away, but he flies toward us at incredible speeds. He reaches out to me,  _Dovahkiin_ , he wants to challenge me,  _Dovahkiin_.

My pulse rises to where I feel my blood beat in the tips of my fingers, the palms of my hands. His challenge pierces me through. I feel it resound somewhere in my being. And I feel that deep, inner self push back, which causes my teeth to grind together and a dark, threatening growl to erupt from my throat. But this contradicts the rest of me, driven to flutter and thrill with the smell of impending battle, and the knowledge of my smaller body, my inescapable mortality.

_Dovahkiin!_

The challenge. I shake, and not from the cold. The rush overtakes me and the world slows down, and I watch my challenger swoop in from above.

The reactionary fury from the dragon's Thu'um floods and thrums in me like the beat of war drums, and I leap from my horse, drowning in this anger and prospect of conquest… and even as my human fear grips me by the throat, my hands call forth twin columns of flame. Lydia and Ungolim both scramble to the attack, their bows drawn, their arrows trained on the dragon's wings.

This battle differs markedly from my fight with the dragon Mirmulnir. It is as if I can better predict the movements of this new challenger, and I know, as I give way for my own Thu'um to rise in glory, where better to aim my own blows, when to dodge, and when, as I send great bolts of lightning through the dragon's neck, I should best keep distance from his jaws as he crashes to the ground before me. Creation yet moves so slowly before my eyes, and though my breath races, though my mortal soul quivers at the demi-god and his claws, my Thu'um bursts up and out to tear my challenger's scales away.

And then Lydia is again on the dragon's back, just as before, singing, hacking his life away where his skin has been made bare. His blood covers her, and I see her revel in it. My Silencer, my Ungolim, pierces the beast's eye with black arrows, drawn and loosed in masterful rapid-fire silence. He leaps and rolls to avoid my challenger's blast of fire.

But I shall have the finishing blow. I weave the magic through my fingers, up and around in my deadly dance, and I relish the sound of the death-note which my ice spike breaks out of the bones of his skull.

Lydia jumps to the ground as my challenger rears back in his final throe. Then he falls and moves no more, while his countenance, his blood, his scales and skin, they burn and fade away. As I watch, I realize that it is  _this_  I smelled just before I had lost consciousness, and then, as most of his body fades away, the dragon's soul leaps up and out of the carcass, and like a rush of cold and ethereal wind, flies into and melds with my body.

I tilt my head back as I feel the knowledge of countless millennia infuse in me, and for a brief moment, I taste the favor of the gods so guarded by  _us_ ,  _me_ ,  _Dov_. Then the Word drudges up from my memory: that odd carving in the old Sanctuary, the one which drew me to it when first I was given free reign there, and then it is not so odd anymore.

 _Krii_ , the Dovahzul thunders in my head. This is the Word: kill. He used it, this dragon, to hunt the deer of the plains. I see the visions of his flight… the glory of the wind on my wings… the sun shining on the scales of my back…

"Amara?" Her green eyes, so close, startle me out of my visions, and I jump back.

I blink a few times and then the world is as I remember it, and a dragon lies dead and defeated before me. Again, I know the satisfaction of the mastery of my Thu'um. I feel the hunger as it yet grows, that craving for the title of  _thur_. It comes to me naturally, as if I had never known any other desire.

Ungolim looks between the skeleton and myself. "I have heard the news,  _Domina_ , but to see it with my own eyes…"

"This  _Dov_ was weak," I grind out, and my speaking voice is draconic, a touch deeper, roiling. "There will be others, stronger ones, wishing to challenge my Thu'um." My words do not seem my own, and my companions notice, though they choose—wisely—to maintain silence on the matter.

I gesture to Ungolim to go and retrieve our horses, who had hidden themselves under a thicket of trees a small distance off the road. As he jogs off, Lydia and I share a look. Her expression is etched with concern, whereas I, yet unable to speak with my own tongue, can but appreciate her blood-soaked visage. I reach up and, with my thumb, wipe some of the spatter from her cheek, while my palm lightly caresses her jaw. At this, she brightens immediately, though she grows a little dimmer once again when I deny her a gore-smeared hug.

Nonetheless… to be covered in the blood of my enemies, I think to myself—as she rushes to her saddlebag for a towel so as to rectify the situation—it is, without a doubt, such an…  _enticing_  look for her.

 

* * *

 

_Disclaimer: I have no intention of using these copyrighted characters as a means by which to feed and/or clothe myself. You may rest easy, Bethesda._

_Comments, questions, criticisms and praises are all welcome._


	9. The Way of the Voice

**Chapter 9: The Way of the Voice**

 

_16 Morning Star, 4E202_

 

Ivarstead. It is here that I will be made to take those first steps toward what is my… apparent… destiny.

But for the moment, Lydia and I are seated at the bar of the village inn, I with my cup of tea, and she with her mug of ale. For this evening, at the very least, my housecarl has decided to humor me by wearing one of the outfits I chose for her, and I admit, in her dark doublet and shirt with embroidered collar, with her tall fine boots and leather hose, she does indeed cut a very fine figure. I even had the doublet fitted for her breast size, so that all she wears fits snugly and much to my pleasure.

She catches me watching. "I think you're enjoying this too much." She says with raised brow, and then takes a long inhale from her pipe. She exhales, and the smoke forms an earth-scented cloud above our heads.

"Oh, come now," I goad her a little, and with a smile. "Is your finery really so uncomfortable?"

"I feel like a little girl's dress-up doll," she grumbles.

We are seated rather close to one another, and as discreetly as I am able, I lightly trail a fingertip along her thigh. "Then you are  _my_  dress-up doll, dear." This earns me a defeated sigh from her. "And, you know, an attractive one at that." I lean so that my lips are closer to her ear. "Since first we entered this little inn, at least three of the provincial girls scattered about in here have been unable to tear their eyes from the handsome prince at the bar."

A hot blush creeps up her neck, and for a moment she makes no response other than to stare fixedly at the mug in her hand. Then, softly, she says: "I'm… I'm loyal… you know." She makes a quick glance around the room, and indeed, she spots at least one or two of the women. "I don't… you know, sleep around. I sort of did… when I was younger… But you should know that, well, I'm loyal to you… if that's what you want." She ducks her head, sheepish in a way that, to me, seems so contradictory to her character.

In these next few seconds, I ask myself several times what the correct response to her statement should be… but no clear answer comes to mind. I admit, such a declaration does much to inflate my vanity. Though, a question, an item of curiosity, does arise: "Is this because you are my housecarl?"

She seems to deflate a little. Perhaps she was expecting me to say some other thing to her. "Uh… no, Amara." She straightens her spine. "No the… only part me you legally, uh,  _own_ , I guess you could say, is my sword-arm." She does a little wave with her right hand. "Like I told you before, my job is to protect and support you, but no Thane can legally pull their housecarl into a sexual or romantic relationship against the housecarl's will. That has to be mutual." She shrugs. "I guess it's… well… common, though. I mean, especially if the Thane travels a lot." Then she picks up her mug and downs nearly half of it, her back still stiff.

I watch as she brings her pipe to her lips, inhales, and then pulls it away with a scowl directed at the bowl, in which the fire has gone out. She reaches into her pocket for her flint. "If I may," I say gently, as I raise a fingertip to the blackened, packed leaves, and cast a very small amount of fire.

"Thanks," she says before taking a pull. Then she stares at the smoke and says nothing more.

Her suddenly-gloomy countenance speaks volumes, although, I will admit, the language is somewhat unclear to me. I sip at my tea, which is growing cold. Some nameless emptiness bubbles up from the pit of my stomach, perhaps some empathetic reaction to the sudden change in the air between us. It seems that I did, in fact, misspeak. I try again. "And as I said to you, it is a rarity that I would take on a lover."

Now she returns her gaze to me, and perhaps she and I exchange some sort of message in a moment that is both short and, simultaneously, quite prolonged. Then the corner of her mouth twitches into the beginnings of a smile, and I believe that, for once in our short relationship, she understands my words without my needing to say them. With our mutual comfort understood and reestablished, she takes my hand into hers, and we let the subject go.

She looks in the direction of Ungolim's closed door. "I didn't know your manservant was so religious."

"I do not pry very much." Really I am more focused on quelling that still-boiling sense of unease in my throat. Did she… want some sort of oath from me? "It is just a habit of his to spend the majority of his evenings in prayer. I know that he does not worship Y'ffre, because he does not follow the Green Pact. Otherwise his gods are unknown to me." Well… with the exception of Sithis, of course…

"And you?" She says as she offers me her pipe.

I accept it. "We were worshippers of Julianos in the Synod. My kin in the Imperial City often send their prayers to Akatosh or Zenithar. I…"  _I am the leader of the cult of Sithis_. "I cannot say, really. Julianos, I suppose, though I am not well in the habit of bending my knee to pray." I exhale a cloud of smoke and wonder, briefly, where she actually keeps her abundant supply of leaves. I glance over at her and lower my voice: "I have seen that you wear an Amulet of Talos under your clothes."

She looks around us to make sure our conversation is private. "Yes. I'm actually surprised you didn't lecture me on it, Imperial." She squeezes my hand.

Oh, the things I could tell her. "It is of no consequence to me, Nord." She smiles. "Though I am curious: Why consider fighting for the Legion if that will only further outlaw your beliefs?"

She shrugs. "Let's just say I can see the bigger picture. And anyway, the Empire belonged to Talos first. I don't think he'd want his legacy destroyed." I finish my tea. She raises her mug and says: "Want to join me with some stiff Nord ale?"

"Oh certainly not," I say as I wave it away. "Even the smell is repugnant. I will cook with it, nothing more."

"I think I might, though," says a male voice from behind us. I berate myself quietly: with all the noise and music in the room, and with my focus so completely shifted to my housecarl, I had not even heard him approach us.

Lydia turns to face him, and I watch as her whole expression lights up and she practically leaps from her seat. "Klimmek!" She says jovially as the two greet one another after the soldier's fashion, with a firm grasp about the forearm.

"I thought that was you, kid." He sounds equally as cheery. "Never thought I'd see you all dressed up like that, though. What brought you to Ivarstead? Last I heard you were promoted."

"I was, but then I was reassigned after that." She gestures to me. "May I introduce the Thane of Whiterun? I was made her housecarl."

I rise, as is proper. The man, Klimmek, greets me with a rather respectable bow, with his fist over his breast in the Imperial manner. "An honor and a pleasure, ma'am."

"The pleasure is mine," I say gracefully. "An old friend of yours, Lydia?"

"Sure is!" She says with a grin. "This is the guy who took me under his wing when I was a kid. I ended up his junior partner in the Whiterun Guard for years." She turns to him and touches her voice with sarcasm. "But then the old man had to go be a fisherman out in the countryside. I didn't know you moved to Ivarstead."

"Yeah, well." He pauses to gesture to the innkeeper for a drink. "I wandered a bit before settling down here. I've been meaning to take a trip out to Whiterun to visit all of you, though. And I…" And here his tone drops a little: "I wanted to go pay my respects to Caius. I couldn't believe it when I heard the news."

_Caius_. That name…

Lydia, too, grows somber. "I barely got out of there alive myself. It was an absolute slaughter." She shakes her head. "But he died with a sword in his hand."

And then my stomach drops.  _Caius, the last Captain of the Whiterun Guard. One of many who I burned alive on that day_.

Klimmek takes his drink from the counter and raises it. Lydia does as well. "To Caius." And they drink heartily. Then we three sit back down, and as the two friends begin to reminisce, I order a glass of wine. "So what happened, exactly? I heard a lot of rumors, but Dragonsreach was pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing."

"I'm not surprised. They usually don't like to make incidents like that public knowledge." She finishes her drink, then orders another. "It was a bloodbath. A pair of assassins were after some rich guy from Solitude. They were Dark Brotherhood. Can you believe it? First time I ever saw one, but they were the real thing. Well, the one missed her shot, but we heard the arrow whiz by. Before you knew it, the same one that can't shoot an arrow worth a damn goes and burns half of us to cinders. Did you get the final list?"

He shakes his head in the negative, his expression grim.

Lydia ticks the names off her fingers. "Svenja, Bjarn, Tobias, Ulfgar, Sten, Ulma, Finna… and it goes on. By the gods, Klimmek, I dug some of the graves myself." She takes another drink, then turns to me. "Sorry, this conversation is going to get really depressing. There's no obligation if you don't want to stick around for it."

I almost fail to realize that she is speaking to me directly, caught up as I am in the sweeping, painful sensation that so grips me. I must take a moment to remember how to speak. "No, I… I am curious."

She nods and gives me a small, appreciative smile, then turns back to Klimmek. "The other one was wearing a damn  _jester's_  outfit and he was just… stark raving mad. I ended up in a one-on-one with him. Took all I had to stay clear of his daggers. It was like fighting a man-sized wasp. He had this grin on his face… I still see it in my dreams, sometimes. He would've killed me if the mage one hadn't told him to haul out of there. Never knew why she did." Another long drink.

"Gods…" Klimmek leans forward on his elbows. "And you never caught 'em?"

"Not the jester. But the mage jumped over the side of the Great Porch. We found her body." She pauses a moment. "You know, something about that always bothered me. I mean, everyone told me I was overthinking it, but when I pulled the mask off the body… I opened the eyes and they just seemed the wrong color, somehow. The chance is high that I was just in the moment, so I remember it differently, but still… Not only that, but the sleeve of the body's costume wasn't burned. She had burned part of it off to get away from me before she jumped."

He gives her a rough pat on the back. "Yeah, you're overthinking it, kid. You found the body, same mask and costume and everything. I bet the costume repaired itself; they enchant them heavily, I heard. I've seen that before. The idiot just fell to her death, and now there's one less piece of shit in the world." Then Klimmek looks at me. "Pardon my language, ma'am."

I nod, numb. Lydia looks to me affectionately and moves her stool back a little so that we are all visible to one another. Both of them… I look between them… and even though only their eyes are looking at me, I feel the eyes of thousands. My skin itches with it.

"Sorry, I don't want to leave you out. I have other stories much better than that last one. I don't like to dwell on it much, anyway." They sing to me from The Pit, scream at me, laugh at me, they watch me and call to pull me down, to swim with them in their wretchedness. Their rotting faces grin toothily at me.  _You did this to us_. Her burnt body rises from the slime to greet me.  _You did this!_

"Yeah, it'd be a better idea." He looks her clothing over again. "So really, what's with the outfit? You look like you should be on a theatre stage." He laughs. "You gonna try turning into a pansy to see if that'll win you that Huntress from the Companions? Did you ever actually manage to bed her?"

Lydia's cheeks change to the color of a tomato and she looks sheepishly at me. I, on the other hand, must be pale as a ghost.  _Listener._  I rise from my seat. "I believe I will leave you two to that part of the conversation." I make my greatest effort to sound pleasant.  _Listener…!_

"Ah, my apologies again, ma'am. I hope it wasn't my language," he says politely, earnestly.

"No, of course not." I force a smile.  _Amara._  To Lydia, I say: "Stay and enjoy yourself." And I touch her shoulder, lightly, and stride off toward my room.  _Swim with us._

I shut the door behind me, and in the dark the sickness overwhelms me, and I run to the washroom and fall to the floor, shaking.

_Your time is running out…_

 

* * *

 

_17 Morning Star, 4E202_

 

It is as if Lydia's expression is permanently etched with concern. She has been watching me all morning, and I, quieter and colder than I have been with her in a while, cannot bring myself even to pretend affection. It is not within me to give.

Though the voices have stopped… for now… the memory of them haunts me and reminds me of my ever-nearing fate. I am, even as I climb this wretched mountain, sickened and nearly blind with an affliction in my own mind. I do not feel the bitter cold, the bitter wind, although I am, on a superficial level, aware of both.

She hefts a sack over her shoulder, one which she had offered to carry to the top for Klimmek. Something about his knees. I could not hear their conversation, as I was, for the entirety of the morning, far too busy awaiting the return of those demons which come to haunt my ear. For hours now, my chest has been pounding with fear at the very idea. I have seen what it does, this downward spiral. I have watched it many, many times.

Ungolim blazes the trail ahead of us. Though his fire magic is not quite so advanced as mine, he still has more than enough power to melt the ice which would otherwise make these accursed steps extremely treacherous. To my understanding, this will be a very long and treacherous climb.

For many it takes several days, and even then, a multitude of circumstances may arise which will hamper, or even fully incapacitate, those who would attempt it. Fortunately I made my preparations  _before_  the onslaught of voices.

I roll my shoulders under the heavy straps of my pack. We three of us carry the maximum amount of supplies available, although it is in moments like this that I curse my physically-weaker physique, when placed in comparison with my companions. Only with the aid of enchantments am I able to carry this much, and even then, the task is thoroughly grueling.

Not only that, but the frigid temperatures and steadily-decreasing levels of breathable air add monumental constraints to our movement. I scowl under my hood, cursing these mad Nord priests, and cursing myself just as much for focusing my training in Athletics exclusively on the techniques of stealth, and not strength.

I am fit— _very_  fit—but not very muscular, and as I trudge on, my legs aching from the weight on my back and this miserable, endless climb, I decide that I will retrain that skill.  _Immediately_.

Hours drag by much in this way, and to my embarrassment, I find that I must rest slightly more often than my companions must. This miserable fact does much to strengthen my decision. We stop and set up a camp when night falls, and after a meager meal of hard bread and strips of salted meat, I collapse into my bedroll, my body aching, dizzy from the thin air and numb with cold. The walls of my tent do little to keep the wind out, and I shiver uncontrollably.

Almost as if she had sensed this fact, Lydia quietly crawls into my tent, her armor shed for the evening, and her body is warm as she squeezes herself into my bedroll beside me. I still cannot bring myself to speak to her, and even the sight of her still makes me think of that slimy Pit to which my mind had been temporarily thrown. And the sight of her reminds me that, someday, that deadly fall will no longer be a temporary occurrence.

But she is not deterred. She does only what her instinct tells her to do: it says to comfort her charge, no matter whence the pain comes. Nevertheless, there is more to my housecarl than mere instinct, and so when the questions come, my only surprise is that they had not come sooner. "Something's bothering you. I know it, I've known it all day. Please, what is it?"

It wells up again, that distinct feeling of sickly unease that will so readily cast me back to the rotting hands in The Pit. I am gripped by fear. "Please, Lydia," I whisper, desperate, "just let me sleep."

"Is it what Klimmek said last night?" She continues, not heeding my plea, and she buries her face into my shoulder. "I mean, yes, I was with that other woman… But I swear I have no one else but you. That was in the past. Please don't be upset."

_She is such an idiot_. "I am not concerned with your past escapades." A shiver runs down my spine.

She holds me tighter in response. "Gods, then, what is it? Amara everything about you, I mean, your movements and your words—it all says that you're about to break into a million pieces. I've been watching you all day. I just—"

I roll around and kiss her. I need to shut her up and I do not know how else to do it. The very act floods me with a sickening combination of comfort and fear… but, at least, it mollifies her.

"I am climbing Tamriel's tallest mountain," I say, "and the weight of the world is on my shoulders." It is a half-truth, but it is one that she will readily accept.

Her palm rests gently on my cheek and she looks into my eyes with such unbridled emotion. "I know," she whispers, "and I'll help you carry that burden until the ends of the world." Now she kisses me. "You're not alone."

And then I weep.

I weep because the image reappears, and I fear it more than I have feared anything else in my entire life. It is my great punishment; the price I must pay for breathing the air of this world, and it is the price I must pay for my choices, my life's work and deeds, for it is triggered and worsened thereby.

It is the price I must pay for this woman beside me, whom I have so thoroughly wronged, to hold me close to her as if I were the most delicate thing she has ever touched. I am sick with it, sick with their rotting smiles and eyes and screams as I tumble into a fitful sleep in her arms.

 

* * *

 

_22 Morning Star, 4E202_

 

The long, miserable, and treacherous road of 7000 Steps leads us, finally, to the gates of the monastery known as High Hrothgar.

Five days. It took us five days to ascend this bitter path. The madness has once again been dulled. Perhaps it is the passage of time that has weakened my sensitivity to my own deeds, perhaps it is the end result of several days of intense physical exertion… in any case, I can once again look Lydia in the eyes.

And yet, though I want to ignore it as I did previously, I cannot remove her furious visage from my mind's eye: it is the fury she held for me, the assassin, on that day. I cannot remove the image. I cannot willfully forget it.

The frigid wind slaps me on the cheeks as I push the gates open, my arms and hands numb with cold. The ancient architecture of the monastery stands in stark defiance against its miserable environment: firm against the wind and ice, and firm against the ground which rattles from the Thu'um that I feel all around me. Almost immediately, it calls out to my own, and draws me inward.

I march up the steps and push open the great iron doors.

The relief I feel upon entering the building is immediate. For the first time in days, the wind does not howl through my clothes to stiffen my bones. Though it is not particularly warm in this place, it is also vastly welcome in comparison to the outside.

Though yet exhausted, I lead my party further into the ancient complex, down a short hall and into what appears to be a large foyer. There, several of the priests await me. The one at the fore, apparently their leader, steps forward. His voice rasps like gravel, and he speaks very quietly. "So… a Dragonborn appears, at this moment, in the turning of the age."

I drop my pack to the stone floor, and the lightness of my shoulders is in itself a blessing. "I am here to answer your summons."

His eyes flicker over my form, measuring, making judgments. "We will see if you truly have the gift." He moves back toward the small grouping of priests. "Show us, Dragonborn. Let us taste of your Voice."

I scowl, frustrated. I just climbed a mountain and already the rotting old sage wants me to further exert myself. A part of me considers using my newest Word, just for good measure. But I focus my breath and attempt, for the first time, to release my power outside of the heat of battle, and at my own will.

I let it rise in me, that preternatural energy, and exhale it in a burst. " _FUS!_ " I Shout, and the force of it causes most of the priests to stagger. My Thu'um energizes me and takes some of the soreness from my muscles.

"Dragonborn…" the leader says in awe, "it is you." He bows to me in greeting, spreading his arms after the fashion of ancient Nords. "Welcome to High Hrothgar. I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards." His eyes move to my companions. "I gather you are all exhausted. Please, allow us to provide you food and rest." He strides deeper into the temple, motioning for us to follow.

We are given a hot meal and a few hours' rest, and I am very glad for it. The past few days simply have not been kind, and even the availability of cooked food seems a wonderful luxury. Ungolim, too, has suffered much in the same way as I, borne as he is out of the warm and misty jungle. Though he has been largely silent over the course of this journey, I can see, now, that he is also glad for its end as he downs his second bowl of stew with gusto. Lydia, though less affected, is nevertheless near to finishing her third.

When I am ready, I go back to the main hall, where the priests now kneel in meditation to await me. Though I allow my footsteps to be heard, it is nonetheless Lydia's clunking that catches the priest Arngeir's attention and causes him to look up. "You have rested enough, Dragonborn?"

"Yes," I say as he stands. "I am ready to learn."

He smiles, pleased. "Sky above, Voice within, Dragonborn. It is the Way that we will teach, for the Thu'um is, above all things, how we as mortals might praise Kynareth." He bows again, in the old way. "You have shown you are Dragonborn. You have the inborn gift. But, do you have the discipline and temperament to follow the path laid out for you? That remains to be seen."

"Without training, you have already taken the first steps to projecting your Voice into a Thu'um, a Shout. Now, let us see if you are willing, and able, to learn. When you Shout, you are speaking the language of the dragons. Your dragon blood gives you a natural ability to learn, and use, Words of Power, and all Shouts are made up of three Words of Power. As you use them, your Shout will become progressively stronger." He gestures to another priest. "Master Einarth will teach you  _Ro_ , the second Word in Unrelenting Force.  _Ro_  means Balance."

Master Einarth gathers his energy, spreads his arms, and whispers the Word against the floor. The Word carves itself into the stone, and as I creep toward it, fixated, its markings glow and grow familiar. I stare at the Word, thoroughly baffled as to why I had forgotten it. " _Ro_ ," I whisper, and the ground shakes. Though it lacks power, it comes so naturally.

"Incredible…" says the priest to himself. "Even without direction, you are able to use it." He gestures again to Master Einarth. "But please allow Master Einarth to grant you his understanding of  _Ro_ , so that you may use the Word to greater effect."

Einarth bows in the old way, and from him, the knowledge gained from years of hard training and meditation streams through my skull in a river. Suddenly I am standing, naked but for a cloth about my loins, balanced on one foot at the tip of a frigid spire as the sun rises above the mountain's icy summit. The night has been cold and cruel to me, but with my breath I have maintained my inner heat, as with my flow of graceful energy I have remained motionless on the spire, with only my one foot connecting me to the entire physical world…

Then I blink, and remember that this vision is not mine, but I understand the Word as if it were mine.

The priests gather about me in a loose circle, and Arngeir warns Lydia and Ungolim to stand back. "Now let us see how quickly you can master your new Thu'um. Use your Unrelenting Force Shout to strike the targets as they appear."

I step away from the middle of the circle and breathe deeply. A priest Shouts: " _FIIK… LO SAH!_ "  _Mirror… Deceive… Phantom…_ And an apparition appears before me, a false image of the priest.

His Words, I know them, I remember them, and they ring through my mind like a half-forgotten dream even as I Shout the false image to Oblivion. " _FUS… RO!_ " A feeling of frustration wells up in me, for I know that my Shout could be stronger. I grumble inwardly and Shout a second apparition down. I am growing increasingly upset with myself because I do not remember the final Word. A third apparition appears, and I destroy that one as well.

"Impressive!" Says Arngeir, pleased. "Your Thu'um is precise. You show great promise, Dragonborn." Now he gestures to another priest. "We will perform your next trial in the courtyard. Follow Master Borri."

The bitter cold air slaps me again as soon as I step back into its biting embrace. I grumble again, thoroughly unwilling to be back outside.

_Though_ … I think on my vision of  _Ro_ , and remember that I can, in fact, balance my inner heat with my breath. I can remind my body of how better to distribute its energies, so that as the wind would seek to force its unforgiving chill under my skin, so can I too pivot this force in and out.

I am not a vessel for its cold, but a conduit. So long as I breathe, I move; so long as I move, so flows the cold air: in, out.

And away it flows, out and gone with each exhale. I warm considerably, and no longer do I feel the need to huddle under the cover of my cloak and hood, though I do, of course, keep both securely fastened; always best to air on the side of caution. And to my great interest, I notice that because what I exhale is now cold air, I no longer create a cloud with my breath. Arngeir notices, his breath also invisible, and he nods approvingly.

As we are lead to a spaced-apart set of gates and posts on the far end of the courtyard, I look over to my Silencer, who once again suffers the cold with no outward complaint but for the grave expression upon his face. Perhaps I should consider making an attempt to teach this concept of Balance to him, difficult though that might be. I have not the slightest idea how I would even go about explaining this knowledge, because I have no memory of ever learning it for the first time.

Rather, each Word I hear—even those which the priests around and behind me quietly use in order to speak with one another—flits across my consciousness like a memory, like a piece of information I should already know. Slowly, but steadily, I hear them, translate, catalogue and remember.

Borri stops and turns to me. Arngeir speaks: "Now we will see how you learn a completely new Shout. Master Borri will teach you  _Wuld_ , which means—"

"Whirlwind," I say, completely without preemption.

He just stares at me a moment. "Well… yes."

The priest Borri whispers the Word at the ground, and as before, the Word appears written in the markings of the  _Dov_. I stare at it, drawn also as before, and whisper: " _Wuld_ …" And suddenly I am face-first into the snow, having been lifted by a powerful wind. The cold of it shocks me, though I jump back to my feet even as Lydia runs to assist me.

"Are you alright?" She asks as I brush the snow from my clothes.

"Ah, my pride is a little sore," I reply as I lightly touch her steel-clad arm before I stride back over to the group of priests.

"That  _is_  incredible," Arngeir says with wonder. "I have never seen anyone move even slightly on their first attempt. But… perhaps so you don't fall… Master Borri?"

Like the last priest, this one bows and passes his knowledge to me. There is a place nearby, one where the wind rushes so harshly that to cross though it means certain peril. To survive this place, I must either be stronger than the wind so that my Voice might clear it… or, I could join forces with the wind, and offer my Voice as a medium of homage. I approach this deadly gale, and I Shout so that the wind should not carry my body, but rather, that my body should carry the wind. My intelligence will give the wind purpose and direction, and we work together to travel up and above, into the very bosom of the sky.

This is my friend the Whirlwind, my brother in movement. Borri approaches the gates furthest from me, and stands ready. "Master Wulfgar will demonstrate Whirlwind Sprint. Then it will be your turn." It is Arngeir's voice, however, that brings me fully back to the present. "Master Borri."

" _Bex!_ "  _Open…_

The priest Wulfgar stands between two posts set away from the gates. They open, and he Shouts: " _WULD NAH KEST!_ "  _Whirlwind… Fury… Tempest…_

I now approach the posts. I have heard all three Words, and although I ache to use them as a whole rather than use just the one, I know that it could lead to dire consequences, as my understanding of them is incomplete. Again I choose the safer path. The gates open. " _WULD!_ " I Shout, and the world blurs by as I fly over it as wind; I am no more tangible than is air.

I stop just a few paces from the edge of a cliff, and upon realizing this, I take several steps back, dizzy.

I approach Arngeir. "Your quick mastery of a new Thu'um is… astonishing. I'd heard the stories of the abilities of Dragonborn, but to see it for myself…" I am surprised to note that there is no malice in his voice; surely a lesser mortal would feel contempt for me, for the ease with which I wield such a difficult art. "Dragonborn, I would have it that you remain among us for a time. We cannot continue to teach you the Way as we have been doing, as that costs us our own knowledge… but if you live among us and practice as we do, I am certain you will very quickly gain knowledge by your own means." He bows. "I would be glad to teach you personally."

"Very well," I reply, "so long as my companions may also remain."

He briefly looks over at them: Lydia, full of wonder and excitement; Ungolim, silent and watching me steadily. "If that is your wish, Dragonborn, we will make an exception to our normal rules."

Then he leads us all back inside.

 

* * *

 

_5 First Seed, 4E202_

 

Inhale. The candle-flames move inward, with me, toward me; I know this though I cannot see them with my eyes. I feel them, or in other words, I feel the process of one form of energy as it converts to another.  _Yol_. It is consumption, transfer, change.

Exhale. The flames move away, as Force flows from me as smoothly as it would move toward me.

I open my eyes. Before me stands the unlit wick of a candle.  _Yol_. Supply and demand. For the entirety of this bodily existence of mine, I have but given of my own life force so that I might create powerful magical  _Yol_ … But can I convince my breath to create it instead?

" _Yol_ ," I whisper, and the wick flares to life. My reserve of magicka remains intact, for instead the air shall do my bidding.

Constant meditation has brought me to a powerful state of mental quietude in the time that I have been here to practice it.  _Longer than a month… I think…_ It is difficult for me to track time in this place, disconnected from the world as it is. More than that, however, it has become exceedingly difficult to track since I came to understand how my Thu'um might Slow Time itself. I ponder it, briefly, prone as I am to tangential thought.

Time is but an artifice, no more measurable in seconds it would be in weight.  _Time_  is the perception of movement, over which man has laid some abstract grid. Should I wish to Slow Time, it is not the movement of the the world around me that I should attempt to slow—the energy cost of the would be suicide, surely—rather, it is I myself who should speed up. As my existence moves more quickly, so does the world around me appear to move more slowly. It is relative: I disappear, and they freeze...

To be so far from the world has been a reprieve that I never knew I wanted. Here, I may forget many things, content as I am to use language to ponder the movement of all things.

But I stand, because I finally notice that my legs and backside have grown numb from sitting still for too long. I shift from foot to foot and glance over to Ungolim who, having also taken well to this lifestyle of contemplation, sits a little away from me, eyes closed. It is unsurprising, really, as he has always been of a more reflective nature.

I believe that Lydia, however, is growing restless. I find her out in the courtyard, where she spars with an apparition that Borri was kind enough to summon for her. She defeats the thing, a splendid sight in her new ebony armor, and pauses for a break.

I had found that armor in a forgotten chest in a storage cavern under High Hrothgar, and as the priests here have no use for it, they gifted it to my housecarl. Though… of course… she still does not wear a helmet.

She lowers her sword as I approach and kiss her. Since that awful night in Ivarstead, I have made a great effort to bury my guilt. She does not know, she cannot know… and here I am, unmasked before her and working to be the heroine that she thinks she sees. Only I will know the falseness of that image, and that is my burden to bear.

Here and now, no matter what painful tides might rise in me when I see her expression grow somber, lost to thought, the best course of action is to maintain her trust in this version of me that is wiser than before. Obviously, she cannot know the truth… because then I would lose her forever.

"I'd thought you'd turned into a statue." She kisses me again. "Are you ready?"

I nod in the affirmative. She has been training me in the arts of strength and endurance, as well as how better to use a sword. Though my swordsmanship is not  _completely_  basic, it is also not as adept as my skill with a dagger or bow, and not nearly as comparable to the deadliness of my magical arts.

I, on the other hand, have been making valiant attempts to teach her to cast at least  _one_  spell… and so far her only success has been to conjure small puffs of smoke. She often jokes that maybe in ten years she will be able to light her pipe.

Though a departure from my normal style, I wear a shirt and trousers. They are indeed much more functional, especially for the kind of physical exertion that Lydia's training puts me through. She is worse than a military driller. She tosses me a sword, which I heft, still a little uncomfortable with its weight. "Prepare yourself." She says, as she lifts her own.

She moves in fast. This is her element, and in this context, her ability to overpower me is evident. I do my best, however, to move, block and strike as she has taught me, and to watch her carefully. Here, I must forget that I find her so damnably attractive, lest I pay for it with one of my limbs. In any case, she disarms me after a few minutes. I hold up my hands, tired. "Yield."

She lowers her sword once more. "You're improving, though you should probably strengthen your arms more."

"Mm," I strut close to her again, my opponent-turned-lover. "And you build me a fire," I say against her lips.

She smiles. "Flint and pitch."

"Oh surely," I say as she sheathes her sword and takes my hands into her gloved ones, "and I will summon a Dremora for you to spar with in my place. They make for very effective seconds in a duel."

"But they're not nearly as nice to look at."

"Says she who has instructed me to ignore such a thing."

Our conversation breaks for a long kiss. "Yes, which is why I'm glad you're on my side, or else I'd have to admit to being a hypocrite." A wink and a smile follow her words. Whether or not she means to do so, she really does charm me far too easily.

We do this without much of a care for the Greybeards, who either say nothing or are themselves too absorbed in some thought to notice us. In any case, Lydia pulls away after a moment for want of politeness. This time here has been good to us, in spite of my unspoken pain. It has been peaceful. Here, she and I are hidden away from the world, and are left with the privacy to forge what has grown sacred between us: that soft familiarity, the comfort of touch. I am not sure if I ever meant to open to her in this way, but it has happened.

I feel this way toward her even as she puts me through all kinds of exhaustive exercise, when her countenance changes to something far more assertive. Even when I drip with sweat and my muscles burn and she still barks orders and urges me on, I feel this way.

I let her direct me. I do not fail to notice the humor of it, nor do I fail to imagine what flabberghasted expressions would grace the faces of my Brothers and Sisters, were they to see a scene such as this.

When Arngeir enters the courtyard to speak with me, the sun is beginning its descent over the horizon and I, soaked in my own sweat, have challenged my housecarl to try and best me as I wield my dagger. Now I resort to those techniques I have mastered, and I dance around her as she swings at naught but the air. This, for us, is an exercise of form at best: for while I am quick, she is sturdy. Just as she is not speedy enough to strike me, I cannot find a break in her patient defense.

He calls out to us, and in unison we make the sign of  _yield_  and lower our weapons. "Dragonborn," he says in his normal quiet manner, "a traveller has just made it here with several letters for you. We are allowing him to rest in the main hall."

And, with that statement, that little world of pretend I had made here becomes so much less believable. A budding sadness takes hold in my breast, reminded as I am of my supposed… duties… on the world far below. Even so, I sheathe my dagger and walk, slowly, toward the main hall.

Seated on a bench, travel-weary and with a hot drink in his hand, is none other than my Brother Fafnir. Reluctant as I am to be reminded of my responsibilities, I do admit that I am a little relieved to see him alive. From time to time, over the course of my long stay in this place, I would briefly ponder as to whether or not my messenger had met some sort of peril. Again, however, my youngest Brother has managed to impress me, especially considering how he just survived that awful climb on his own. Today's costume consists of peasants' wear, a heavy warm cloak and a cloth tied about his head. Dirt smears his face.

He stands, albeit wearily, to greet me. "That's a real climb, ain't it, ma'am?" And, it would seem, today's accent is provincial and uneducated. "Ye'er the Dragonborn? Jarl 'a Whiterun sent me out here. Ye won't believe me luck, though. Walked all the way here, I did. An' I told people I was deliverin' some writins' to the Dragonborn, and they say to me: take this letter, take that one. Then some guy comes along, Fi-li… Fay-lay-tees? Had a weird name, he did. Gives me a whole bunch'a paper for ya, from this Jarl and that Jarl. Ye'er a popular lady, ma'am." And he hands me the bag he had slung over his shoulder.

Sithis, his accent is so convincing that he is even managing to properly irritate me. If he was not a thief before becoming a Dark Brother, then he must have been an actor. "Thank you for bringing these," I say, my voice a clipped kind of polite. "Stay and rest a while. I will send my manservant in a few moments to compensate you."

Fafnir the Peasant falls back to the bench like a stone, and with no manners whatsoever. "I thank ye' kindly, ma'am."

Lydia in tow, I first go to Ungolim to instruct him to pay the courier, and then I go to my room and straight to my desk. My housecarl sits in a chair by the door so as to stay nearby without disturbing me.

I open the bag. It is nearly full with correspondence: indeed, letters from a few Jarls, requests for aid—in other words, dirty work without pay—from some of Skyrim's more  _self-entitled_  citizens, which I toss into the fire. Eventually I find the letters I am actually interested in reading: several pieces of correspondence from Nazir and Babette, as well as a letter from her Silencer, Gulitte.

Also, at the very bottom of the bag, Fafnir left me a recent copy of Windhelm's newspaper. Its headline brings a wonderfully sinister smile to my face, and it is for this reason that I am glad my back is turned to Lydia.

I open Nazir's letter. In it he responds very positively to my summons for The Hunt, and says that he has chosen to send Babette and Gulitte on the job. Gulitte will hunt Ulfric Stormcloak, and Babette will bring down Galmar Stone-Fist. He passed on my directive that they should be creative, and he writes that they will notify me personally when the deed is done. Additionally, he writes, a few new contracts have been secured, and he thanks me for the information I have sent him on what I have heard from The Night Mother.

I make a mental note to send a new list of contacts back with Fafnir.

I move on to Babette's letter. She reports that she and Gulitte had spent two weeks or so in reconnaissance before making a decision as to how they should die.  _Because_ , Babette writes,  _his behavior toward you was so disgusting, we've decided to make their deaths look avoidable and embarrassing._

Apparently, Galmar Stone-Fist had a taste for prepubescent girls. The Empire outlawed any sort of relations with undeveloped children hundreds of years ago, but thanks to Ulfric's little rebellion, his right-hand man was free to indulge himself without fear of repercussion…  _legal_  repercussion, anyway, for within the greater common community of this land, such acts are still seen as heinous.

Because of this, however, his humiliating demise was quite simple to enact. Babette allowed him to lure her to his chambers with candies, though only after she had made a few thralls out of the palace guards. This was necessary, she writes, because he had paid most of them to keep quiet.

Quite simply, as Galmar was about to perform his dirty deed, a whole throng of guards stormed into his room, saying they had been tipped off. They caught him in the act and took him to prison. It was a  _massive_  public scandal. And Ulfric, embarrassed and needing to pretend he had not known about it, had to have his best general, not to mention his best friend, publicly executed for pedophilia. Babette ends her letter with sincere thanks for all the fun, and a small joke about how now I seem to be turning all my Siblings into unintended heroes.

Finally, I move on to the letter I have saved for last: Gulitte's. My first pleasant surprise is to see that she had written it in fluent, albeit very formal,  _Latine_ : my native language. I make a note to ask after her education. The Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, she reports, is a very proud man. To him, his image as the noble savior of Skyrim is second in importance only to his image as an archetype of masculinity and strength, and to this end, he works very hard to hide his own secret sexual appetites from the general public.

He is fond of prostitutes, mostly because of the fact that they are expendable, and he has a new one in his bed nearly every night. Interestingly enough, however, these women are never seen again after their romp with the Jarl.

After breaking into his chambers and undertaking a little voyeurism, she found out why. The Jarl has a very specific need: he must be choked nearly to the point of asphyxiation before he is able to reach climax. While this in itself is neither illegal nor exceedingly uncommon, the Jarl is nonetheless very secretive about the matter, and once the act is performed, he has the prostitute killed. My hunter reports that she waited until there came a night when Ulfric made no request for a woman to be brought to him. As he lay in his bed, she snuck past his guard, entered his chambers and appeared to him, made-up and very scantily clad.

She offered herself to him, and although he seemed angry that his servants had sent a girl along without his express orders, he took her nonetheless. So she choked him to death with his own belt: he, with his phallus in his own hand, asphyxiated. Before the  _rigor mortis_  set in, she set the body up so that it looked like he had choked himself, strung up as she had left him to the high horizontal post of his bed.

_In the morning_ , Gulitte says in the final part of her letter,  _the servants found him this way. The rumors spread like wildfire, and the general public is in righteous uproar. Thank you, Listener, for allowing me to serve you. I hope this letter finds you in good health, and I look forward to your return._

I fold the three letters, thoroughly proud of Nazir and my hunters. They have indeed surpassed my expectations, and Gulitte can be sure that she will be appointed to the position of Speaker as soon as Babette gives her approval.

I retrieve a piece of paper and a pen and write them a congratulatory missive, as well as a list of new contacts,  _per_  what The Night Mother has told me in my dreams. Then I throw their letters into the fire, a little sad to see such satisfying news burn away, but nonetheless aware of the necessity of the action. I fold my own letter and place it in my pocket, and then I pull the newspaper from Fafnir's bag.

The headline is beautiful:  _Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak Commits Suicide, Galmar Stone-Fist Executed!_

What, oh what, will become of his legacy now? The sinister smile is back on my face. This newspaper is full of even wilder stories than what my hunters have reported to me. Good.

I wipe the look off my face, and I hope that this will be only one more out of a very small number of lies that I must yet tell her: "Oh my, Lydia," I say, and tinge my voice with astonishment, "do look at this."

She rises from her seat and leans over the desk to read the paper. "What in the name of…?" She snatches it off the desk, and reads it with the most incredulous expression. "He… oh wow." She finishes the rather lengthy article, and shakes her head. "Wow." She puts a hand on her hip and thinks for a minute. "Kind of weird that they both died around the same time, don't you think?"

Ever the guard. Oh, but she will be the death of me. "Mm, no, it would make sense, if anything."

"How?"

"Jarl Ulfric had to have his right-hand man executed for a very heinous crime. If those rumors written there are at all true, then perhaps he purposely chose to be careless."

"Eh," she shrugs, as she begins to untie her armor. "Yeah, that actually does make sense. No matter, that man was going to die one way or another, I guess. Sad way to go, though." She touches her throat, briefly, and grimaces. "Can't imagine how that must feel good…" She mutters to herself, more than to me.

I leave her for a moment to pass my letter to Fafnir, who rests still on the bench. I give him a friendly wink before returning to my room, where Lydia lies on our bed in only her white shirt, covering her eyes with the crook of her arm. The sight of her, laid out in this way, urges me to approach and lean down to kiss her, as if to savor the last bits of the sweetness we built here, in the depths of our world-less privacy. She returns my affections gladly, and reaches up to release my hair from its tie, but I halt her. "I need to bathe," I say before kissing her once more.

"Need some help?" She replies, sultry, desirous. She sits up and reaches for the stays of my shirt, and undoes them one by one.

"I need to  _actually_  bathe, dear," I breathe as her lips find my breast. "Last time I…  _ah_ , accepted your help, it took more than an hour to get clean."

Her lips find my stomach, her hands, the ties of my trousers. "Really, I'll help this time," she says between kisses. "Promise."

"Oh, you are a terrible liar." She pulls me onto the bed, so that I am on my knees and just above her lap. Her kisses do not cease, never stop moving lower. "Lydia!" I whine.

I tangle my fingers into her hair and pull her back up to my lips, and she wraps her arms about my waist and pulls me in close. "Stop being so comely, then," she whispers to me as her hands move to caress my backside.

I groan, frustrated and aroused. " _Fine_ ," I acquiesce. "But at least allow me to get clean  _first_  this time."

Her lips move to my neck, while the palm of her hand lightly caresses at the apex of my thighs. At my sound of pleasure, she smiles. "Of course."

 

* * *

 

_Author's Note:_

 

_1\. I almost included a lot more comedic-effect-type dialogue in that conversation in the beginning between Klimmek and Lydia, and I will admit, straight-up, that there is only one source of inspiration behind this inclination: a series on YouTube called COPS: Skyrim. It's on the Nerdist channel, and it probably should have gotten me kicked out of the university library a few times… because, you know, of all my obnoxious laughter. If you haven't seen it, and you enjoy the activity of laughter, go watch it. It is… awesome._

_2\. I'll be honest: I hate the main questline of this game. Bethesda had such an awesome idea on their hands, and really, they just dropped the ball. If the Dragonborn is so gifted and the Greybeards are so all-knowing, then why don't they just teach the Dragonborn themselves? And why, if learning and using the dragon language is supposed to be such a deeply spiritual experience, is the Dragonborn's relationship with it so ridiculously unexplored and superficial? The Dragonborn must FEEL IT. /end rant_

_3\. To those who found Ulfric's death too disturbing/personally insulting: I did not intend to make any direct insults… I just needed an interesting way to asphyxiate the guy. If you or your loved one do it that way, or if you know someone who died unintentionally as a result of it: I'm not trying to trigger anger or painful memories... But this story is intended to be dark, and at times, disturbing. And these things do happen in real life. It's one of the risks. I only ask that you keep this in mind if you still wish to express any concerns to me._

_4\. With regards to Galmar's death... I was watching Law and Order: SVU earlier. Enough said...?_


	10. The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller

**Chapter 10: The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller**

 

_7 First Seed, 4E202_

 

"It is but a matter of contemplation," I assure him. "For  _joorre_ , a month is surely not long enough. But you are more intelligent than most."

Ungolim nods, though nonetheless with a small measure of dejection. "This truly is nothing like the magical arts,  _Domina_. I had hoped that it would be… though I will continue to reflect on it." He eyes me a moment, respectful though affectionate. "You make it look far too simple."

I shrug. "I am afraid I have no worthy reply for you." I set down my cup. "Though…" I pause to think for a short moment. "Your lessons in the blockage of the body's energy flow have added an interesting measure of contemplation for me, with regards to that Word. Those techniques of yours are quite the opposite of what, I believe, this Word is intended to illustrate. Have you considered this?"

"Somewhat, yes,  _Domina_." Briefly, his eyes flicker to Lydia, who sits nearby with her own small repast and listens quietly to our conversation, "Though to envision the exact nature of such an  _opposite_  has proven difficult."

"I think you apply the concept with too much force," Arngeir says quietly over his own cup. "It is a matter of patience and delicacy, and to know both sides of oneself."

"Both sides…" Ungolim mutters to himself, but then furrows his brow. "And if there are more than two?"

Arngeir responds with a small chuckle. "Better yet, some philosophers believe that we are composed of nothing at all, and that we therefore have  _no_ 'sides' to contemplate, in any sense."

"But we think and feel," Lydia says, crossing her arms, "so that doesn't make any sense."

"Ah," says Arngeir wistfully, "we only  _think_  we do." This only earns him a very confused expression from my housecarl, though it is evident that this is, to him, something of a private joke. "And you, Dragonborn?"

"Mm," I hum, in thought, "we are many things, and we are nothing at all. Many things because we cannot conceive otherwise, and nothing because we must convince ourselves of the opposite."

Lydia sighs. "I think you've been breathing thin air too long."

"Though I believe I've found my evening's contemplation," Arngeir says warmly. "As for you, Dragonborn, there is a matter we should discuss."

"You have my attention."

"Over a very short period of time," he says, his voice authoritative, "you have proven the incredible power and tenacity of your Thu'um. I daresay you have very nearly attained mastery of the Way. According to tradition, however, there is a final test for the Dragonborn to complete so that he or she might obtain the full blessing of the Greybeards."

I lean forward slightly. "What sort of test?"

"A ways from here, in an ancient fane called Ustengrav, rests the body of our founder, Jurgen Windcaller. It is a tradition that the Dragonborn should travel to this tomb to retrieve his horn, and to bring it back here to High Hrothgar."

I raise a brow. "Pardon me, Arngeir, but what is the practical purpose of retrieving this horn?"

"Aside from the ceremonial necessity," he replies with a small smile, for he understands my hesitance, "the tomb itself is an ancient testing ground for Dragonborn. Only those with a strong enough Thu'um will be able to reach the chamber of the horn."

I rub a hand over my eyes. Yes, Listener, delve into the ancient tomb to risk life and limb for some worthless ceremonial artifact. For a short moment, I think on Mother's orders: I was to go to the Greybeards, which I have done. Even without their supposed 'blessing,' I have already acquired a formidable mastery of the Voice… "Is this…  _truly_  necessary?"

Arngeir looks at me steadily. "Is it?"

His eyes do not deviate from my own, not until I scowl and look away from him myself. I was given no further instruction other than to go to the Greybeards; beyond this, I suppose, I am to decide what methods best lead me to my yet-unclear goal. Either that, or Mother truly is unaware of whatever endgame the gods have deemed fit for me, and has thus chosen to leave me to my fate. "And only I, and I alone, can pass through this place?"

"I don't know, Dragonborn," he replies with honesty. "Perhaps you will find some means to lead your companions through as well, though how exactly is not for me to know."

I drum my fingers against the table, frustrated. "What is my role in all this madness, Arngeir? Suddenly there are dragons in this land, and suddenly I can speak their tongue and think their thoughts.  _Suddenly_ , I am one mortal body away from  _being_  a dragon myself. A cataclysm approaches; the more that I meditate on the Voice of the sky, the more do I feel it. So, do tell me, with such ominous blackness looming just over the horizon, why in the name of all creation is this ceremonial horn more important than finding my real purpose for being here at all?"

My hand balls into a fist. "Many, many times, I have asked you, and many times you have refused to answer me. I have been patient. More patient than ever in my life. You will answer me, now. You will tell me what is happening in the skies above and the world below, and why I am here to do something about it."

In a way that is almost fatherly, he gently rests a hand over my own fist. "The Horn was… granted to Jurgen Windcaller by Kynareth herself. When sounded by a Dragonborn, it calls the attention of the gods to him or her… Briefly, they pause in their contemplations of infinity, and together, they confer some of their divinity to the worthy one that calls them." He takes a breath. "You will need this blessing, though it is our Grandmaster himself who wishes to explain why. First, however, you must go to Ustengrav."

I just stare at him. "They will… make me a god?"

"In a way," he says, almost dismissively. "You will still be mortal… but you will change, yes. Think of it as a touch of divinity, a blessing. There is a story in the lore of the most ancient of Nibeneans, if I recall correctly, that tells of a warrior of most impossible strength. He gained it because, when he was but a babe, his mother dipped him into the then-extant river of the gods. You know this story?"

"I do. He became known to the first conquering Imperials as  _Akhilleus_."

"It is something like this, then. Or… that is the information that has been passed down to me. The last Dragonborn to receive such a blessing was Talos himself." He shakes his head a little. "Obviously, there may be some missing pieces."

I still do not stop scowling. " _Akhilleus_  had a rather damning weakness."

Arngeir finally takes his hand from mine. "Don't we all?"

 

* * *

 

_14 First Seed, 4E202_

 

"I've been looking for you. Got something I'm supposed to deliver. Your hands only." The courier, a young man with a rather forgettable face, reaches into his bag. "Let's see here… A letter from Solitude! Looks pretty official."

I take the missive and toss the boy a coin. He runs off in some direction, though I take very little notice. Rather, it is the wax seal on the letter that captures my attention: it is the insignia of the banking house of the East Empire Company. I flip the envelope over: no name is written with which to address me. How the courier had found me, then, I could only begin to guess at.

Though the evening fires burn and the night is the mildest felt in months, a chill runs down my spine.

"A bank?" Lydia says as I flip the envelope back over, and she takes notice of the seal. "I thought you said they lost track of you."

"I thought they did." My voice is bitter. I knew that I would regret stopping over in Morthal again. It is my curse ever to find some kind of unwanted excitement every single time I set foot in this miserable town. "Though it would seem that they have found the Dragonborn." I rub my eyes, briefly, and think on how my mother would criticize such a gesture. "My likeness must be plastered all over Skyrim by now."

"Yeah you uh… well…" She takes a step closer to me, somewhat at a loss for words. "You do look kind of… well… unique. I mean. Your hair…"

"My  _hair_ ," the letter crinkles in my tightening fist, "has never been anything better than a great target on my head. Countless times, I have been tempted to cut it off or dye it dark—"

"Don't do that!" Lydia interjects. Then she quickly remembers herself. "I mean… sorry…"

I raise a brow, although I lay a reassuring hand on her arm. What was meant to be a pleasant evening stroll for us has now turned into a reminder of not only the past I wish to avoid, but also of how  _few_  ways Lydia truly adheres to the manners of a housecarl. Nowadays, she tends to behave and speak with me as a lover ought… and here I am, hopelessly enforcing such behavior. "In the end, dear, I admit I am far too vain to alter it."

She gives me a small kiss on the brow. "I would have guessed," she says with light humor. "Are you gonna open it?"

"I already know what it is," I glower as we make our way back toward the inn. "Blackmail, ransoms, a request for a refunding of what I took all that time ago. Choose any one."

"But it was your money," she says, incredulous, "or… wasn't it?"

"It was the family's money, and now with my face all over Skyrim, I imagine they will want to line their pockets with my added requests for privacy."

Lydia scowls. "Bastards."

I make no reply, but I push the door to the inn open and go directly to our shared room. She follows close behind. Once inside, and with our door shut, I sit at the small table against the wall and crack the seal. The letter is written in fluid _Latine_ , though with a shaking hand:

 

_Mara mea,_

_This letter is enchanted, so no one but you can read it, should you not wish them to. This effort drains the last dregs of what remains of my mind. It has happened, Mara. I am slipping away. The tides are creeping up. I hear such horrible whispers. But the whispers have led me to Solitude and the last leg of our influence, because I must find you before Cato does: The likeness of the Dragonborn has not yet reached the Imperial City, though it soon shall. I will succumb very soon. For as long as I am able, I will use my resources here to find you… But if this letter reaches you first, I beg of you to come and find me, for I may already be lost._

_Leon_

 

I am on my feet and shouting for Ungolim before I even realize my doing so. The letter is crumpled up in my pale and shaking hands. He rushes into the room within seconds, his blade drawn, his eyes darting all about. " _Domina_?"

"Ungolim," I say, my heart pounding, "you must find someone for me.  _Immediately_. Gather every resource at our disposal, every able-bodied courier and scout, every conceivable source of intelligence." I start to shiver as the reality of the situation comes into full focus, and as I am reminded once more of my own waning clarity. "You must find Leon Aestus. He looks…" another shiver, "He looks like me… but male. Taller. He is somewhere in Skyrim."

I fall back into my chair. Lydia looks back and forth between my Silencer and I, unsure of what to do or say. Ungolim furrows his brow. "A kinsman,  _Domina_?"

"My elder brother." I place my head in my hands. "You must bring him to me. But… be warned… he is as formidable as I. And he…" I take a shaking breath, "has likely gone mad. Truly, mad. But, I tell you, under no circumstances may he be harmed."

"He will be found,  _Domina_ …" Then, as if in a rare form, my Silencer takes a hesitant step closer to me. "And if I may ask… what you will do now?"

I glare at him. "I told you to go, Ungolim."

He recoils. "Forgive me,  _Domina_." Then he rushes out the door.

Silence quickly comes to reign over the room. My head is back in my hands.  _Leon_. The voices drove him to Skyrim to find me. In the time since my flight from Cyrodiil, I have done my best to bury my connection to my lineage, my reputation, my society, and my family. I have done my best to forget them, to move on and to live comfortably and quietly in my newfound, and bloody, peace. I have worked to forget even my elder brother, whom I had loved the most of all my kin.

Now, alone, perhaps afraid, and without me, he has likely fallen to the madness.

_You're next_ , the whispers brush my ear,  _next, next, next. Swimming like a fish! Fish! Fish soup, soup like clam chowder. Aren't we hungry? Stop looking over there! We know you're looking. Stab your eyes out. Fix it._

_Faraway noise._ "… ra."

_Killed all her friends._ "… Mara."

_Loves you. Calling you. You killed all her friends._  "Amara?" She crouches down before me and gently lifts my chin with her fingers. "Where are you?"

It takes a moment or two before I realize that I am looking into her eyes.  _Stab them_. Her gaze is deep, her expression one of empathy and comfort. "A precarious place," I whisper.  _Precarious, precarious, mountain-tip-top fall_.

"Come back," she says softly, as she rounds her palms about my jaw.

_She knows_. "I want to."  _Stab them_.

Her thumbs brush the skin of my cheeks so very gently. My hands grasp at her wrists; this is less of a measure of support than it is a means of keeping them in view. I cannot trust myself in this moment not to cause her some kind of harm. "Amara." She pulls me toward her so that our foreheads touch. "Tell me, if you can."

"Tell you?" And share the family secret that everyone already knows? Ruin all the fun?  _She'll hate you_. "Tell you…" I take a long breath. "It has happened to him… It has… I mean, I knew that it would. We all know it will, someday. But… but he…" I squeeze my eyes shut. I see them, hear them, screaming, laughing.

"What happened?" She presses closer, to regain my attention. "I don't understand."

_Don't understand_.  _Don't_. "We are mad blood, Lydia."

"Mad blood?"

I open my eyes again. She is concerned, attentive, and close. "Mad. We carry a mark… a… curse, I guess. My kin and I. We… eventually go mad. All of us. As we approach middle age, we begin to hear voices. Everyone has a different experience, but… there are visions, incomprehensibility, and… a complete scattering of the mind. It started with Viator. He was thirty-five. Some are older, some younger, but…"

Now her expression is one of horror. "How… How old are you?"

I look her dead in the eye. "Twenty-eight."

She leans back now, and sits on the floor. "You weren't going to tell me?"

"It is not… something I like to think about." At least the screaming has quieted down. "I was going to tell you in the event of a rising necessity. I… suppose this would be the event."

And now she stands. "Sorry I… I need to think." Slowly, she retreats out the door.

And I am left, staring blankly, at the flickering flame of the candle on my little table.  _Flicker, flicker_. Such a lovely fire, so small and useful.

I blow it out.

 

* * *

 

_15 First Seed, 4E202_

 

I wake from a fitful sleep to a cold bed and gray morning light. The bed is not cold because of emptiness: rather, my bed partner lies far from me, and is turned away. She joined me here the night before, long after I had already laid down, smelling strongly of smoke and mead.

I study her outline. Her reaction would have been the same, I think, no matter what time I would have chosen to reveal all this to her. Inevitably, I would have met this cold divide and this outward show of hurt and betrayal. Unwillingly, I smirk, though it is grim.  _You know not the half of it, my dear_.

I roll on to my back. The thought of killing her briefly flits across my mind once more, though at this point the thought is trivial and quickly dismissed. I now know, for as much as it pains me, that she has become… important. Here I am, on my way to Sithis-knows-what-trial, and it is perhaps because she drives me to do so.

_Though you were able to kill Astrid_.

It was a mercy kill.

_Even so_ …

I squeeze my eyes shut, having no desire to encourage any voice other than my own to guide my contemplations, well-meaning and helpful or not. I raise my head and note that Leon's letter rests still on my little table.  _Ecastor_ , and that is another pit of Oblivion to trudge through. I can only hope that my Brotherhood finds him before he comes to some kind of harm.

Lydia rolls over and opens her eyes somewhat, just as I magically will the letter into my raised and waiting hand. "How do you do that?" She mumbles, still half asleep.

"It falls within the school of Alteration," I reply quietly. "I change the air around the letter into a force that propels it to me. It sounds simple, though it took me months to learn."

The air is heavy with an unspoken accusation. She must feel it as well, because she makes only the smallest noise of acknowledgement, and then once again falls silent. She merely watches me.

For my part, I have very little more to say on the subject. For my kin and I, this is fate, an inevitability. House Aestus has attained mastery over quelling the whimsical joys of youth, all in favor of producing young and clever businessmen and women who might successfully continue the family fortune and line before they, themselves, also go mad. I am not so different in this regard, otherwise deviant though I might be.

And madness, for the Listener, means only very little. Many a raving Listener has led the Dark Brotherhood since the title's inception, as the voice of The Night Mother has a unique way of soothing any other mad voices that plague her host's mind. It is, perhaps, the greatest benefit of a position such as mine: in her presence, the creeping madness plagues me so much less. The thought leads me to crave my Sanctuary once more, and all at once I grow weary.

Lydia watches me still. "Do you have a headache?" I reach my hand out and lightly rest my fingertips on her forehead. Her skin is cool to the touch.

"A little." She, too, is hesitant. Neither of us wants to have this conversation, besieged, as we are, with every other chaos that needs to be sorted out. And although she might wish otherwise, she still leans a little further into my touch.

I cast my healing charm, and allot myself the small grace of allowing my strange affections to flow from me as a soothing white magic. "I have a question," she says softly, though her stare is hard. "A few questions, actually."

I move to touch her hair, and to lightly run my fingers through it. "Yes?"

"I know that there's a lot that you aren't telling me." A sensation like hot magma starts to bubble in my chest. "I've kept quiet. I figured it either wasn't my business to know, or you'd tell me eventually. But Amara…" She leans up on one elbow, and I pull my hand back from her hair. "After last night, I… I mean, that was shocking. Really shocking. It got me thinking: first about how selfish it was of you to… to keep me in the dark, knowing what'll happen… Then I started thinking about everything else."

"Everything else?" I interject, as I try to ignore the uncomfortable heat.

"Yes," she says, her expression one of cautious anger. "What  _network_  were you talking about last night? Who're all these informants and couriers?" Now she sits up fully. "It's either a spy network of some kind, or a business that you're just not telling me about. And the first one is  _illegal_  and the second one, well, it's damn suspicious that you don't talk to me about it. So what is it, then? You're awful good at lockpicking and sneaking around. So? Skooma, slaves, illegal animals? What?"

The fog obscuring my thoughts is a thick one. It is as if I can only hear half of what she says, or as if she were speaking to me from under water. "Lydia…" My voice is thick, too.

"Tell me." Her fists are clenched. "I swear, Amara, if you don't…"

I have to find the actress.  _The actress!_ I need her silver tongue, her wit and cleverness. My Lydia has made me too soft. Where is my ire?

So I force it. Though I know the outcome, I force myself into that comfortable, haughty anger. I pretend, for just a moment, that she is someone else. "How willful," I snap, though even I can hear the half-hearted tone to my voice. "How presumptuous. So now I cannot even keep certain matters to myself?"

"No, don't dig at me—!"

" _You_ ," I grind out, "you are  _insolent_. Your nerve is astounding. I run a small labor business,  _you idiot_. When people need work done, I send workers to them. I find  _jobs_  for people." The half-baked truth sounds pleasant even to my ears, and I feel a little gratified, knowing that I have not yet completely lost my wits. "Of course I have informants. Of course I have couriers. You wretch!"

I stand to look away from her, though under the presumption of dressing myself. I can no longer stand to see my own guilt reflected in her features, even if she herself does not perceive it. From behind me, she sounds just nearly as wretched as I have accused. "Well…"

"Well!" My fingers shake as I try, and continuously fail, to tie my sash. "Well! Among my kin, to discuss business with a lover is  _infelicitas_ , bad luck," I lie. "For this, it is  _taboo_." I finally manage to tie the thing. I know I must still look disheveled, however. "I will be cursed now, surely."

"I didn't know you were superstitious…" I hear her rise, too. "And I didn't know…"

"No, you did not." Now I turn to face her, no longer having any excuse not to do so. The painful heat flares up to my throat at the sight of her: beautiful, guilty, and so very deceived. The heat suffuses me, and it is not comfortable, not wanted. "And you have no small idea of how bitterly  _I_  suffer.  _You_  fear for the future? At least you can contemplate having one."

And then… finally… my anger becomes real: "I am destined to  _die_. If it is not by my own hand, then it will be from within the jaws of a dragon. I do not pursue this infuriating fate out of some simple desire to do good— _oh no_ —I pursue it in the hopes that a god himself will extinguish my addled consciousness while it is still  _mine_."

My last word resounds like a clarion in our little room, and then, all too abruptly, its furious energy is replaced by an uncomfortable silence. Now she merely stares at me, clearly at a loss for how to proceed. My own statement, however, has stricken me with more force than I could have ever anticipated.  _Yes, I want to die first._  That does make quite a lot of sense.

No matter. I finish dressing and leave the room before she can make any further comments.

The main room of the inn is nearly empty when I cross the threshold. I take a seat in a chair by the central hearth, call to Jonna for a drink, and pinch at the skin between my eyes. There is so much more to worry about than the mess I have made with my housecarl. Now, I must decide as to whether or not I will remain in Morthal while the search for Leon is underway: to remain would expedite his delivery to me, should he be located. To continue my journey, on the other hand, would solve this ridiculous riddle of  _godhood_  that Arngeir thought fit to pose to me.

_Paths, paths_ , the chattering between my ears agrees.  _You'll swim_. I cringe.  _Indeed_. He has already lost himself: the voices have him now, without question. I do not need to see him to know this, as the quake in his penmanship was evidence enough. I would not dare to hold out some kind of false hope for his last remaining shreds of sanity.  _More!_  He may not even recognize me.  _More! More!_

They call for company, perhaps. I lean forward and cover my whole face with both hands. Would they even chatter with one another between both our heads? An ache brews from behind my eyes.  _More!_  He could very easily worsen my own condition.

The ache flares, and I decide that my time is too precious, and my own stability far too questionable. I know this for a fact, as I have seen the effects of this fatal imbalance far, far too many times before.

I must simply trust Ungolim to complete his task, and to keep what might very well be the raving, near-unrecognizable shadow of what was once my brother in safe keeping for my return. It is a risk, yes, as he could pose a real danger to himself, but his potential threat to me is perhaps greater.

It must wait.

Jonna approaches loudly from behind me, though she quietly hands over my cup of tea. Perhaps she had a mind to make conversation with me, but my entire countenance, with all its dark brooding, seems to discourage her. I ignore her, sip my tea, and let myself stew.

After a few moments I notice a lute propped up against the stone side of the massive brazier, perhaps left forgotten there by some traveling bard. It is a familiar weight, one which I realize I have missed, when I move to pick it up. I am unsure if this constitutes theft, but no one reprimands me when I take it back to my chair.

I pluck one string and discern, immediately, that the instrument has been a while neglected. The other strings are in much the same sad state of discord from one another, so that I must spend a small amount of time re-tuning the thing. The action is almost therapeutic, and when I finally do begin to play, a little bit of my previous duress wears away.

I finger out songs as I remember them, and as I reacquaint myself with this skill of mine gone long unused… But my hands quickly recall the countless hours of instruction and practice and polish, and soon enough, I am once again able to play without wasting much of my concentration on the action itself.

I can, rather, merely listen to what music I choose to invoke. I close my eyes and play like this for a long while, and as best I am able, I endeavor to focus on nothing else.

The sound of her too-loud footsteps, distinctive as ever, resounds from our shared room and then from the main room. The sound comes near to me, and then stops just before me. I open my eyes a little and see that she has taken a seat just across me, on the edge of the brazier's wide stone lip. I do not stop playing, though she watches me intently.

She is now dashingly well-dressed in one of the outfits I chose for her, perhaps as a sort of peace offering. And as a matter of course I am reminded, once again and all too keenly, of just how skilled a liar I can truly be. Her sorrow is palpable, and I can all but see the apology as it seems about to burst from her.

So I stop playing, and the silence which follows seems to sting us both. She says, quietly, intimately: "That was beautiful. I've… been looking forward to when I could finally hear you play."

I make no response. Quite suddenly I find my old habit of reticence rather appealing. I just watch her fidget before me, my features impassive. I haven't the slightest idea what to say to her, beset on all sides, as I am, by a sickening combination of guilt, affection, and self-preservation. The chaos she causes in me is just… unbearable.

_I would be your heroine, if I must,_ I say to her, silently,  _and I would be the Listener as well, for it is where I most belong. I would keep you starry-eyed and happy, warm and comfortable in all my deceit, for as long as I might know myself._

This comfort that she provides me, sharp and undeserved though it may be, is like nothing I have ever known before. She does not stay with me out of duty or honor as decreed by her Jarl; no, she stays with me as a matter of loyalty to her more personal moral compass… and beyond this—and it is from here that my guilt smolders in me like some ever-growing pile of embers—beyond this, for the bond that has formed. It is one which even I would hardly dare to analyze to its depth.

It is one which colors my judgment, makes me weak, affects my actions, and guilts me so very deeply when I lie to her. It is one which forces me to realize that her pain cuts me, too, no matter how much I might try to force away such disorienting levels of empathy.

And twisted though my reasoning might be, I am nevertheless a little glad that I may very well die before she can see either the depths of my madness or my place within the Dark Brotherhood. Yes, I must admit it: I am indeed just a little bit glad.

"Amara…" My stare must be so uncomfortably penetrating. I lay the lute gently down on the floor, beside my chair. "Please say something."

"What shall I say?" I finally reply to her. "Would you have me plead my innocence, Captain?"

She winces when I speak her old title. "Amara…"

I stand. "We are far too behind schedule. My manservant is off to find my lost madman of a brother, I can feel my own mind slipping, and my housecarl suspects I am a criminal."

She all but jumps to her feet. "Your  _lover_ —"

" _My lover_ ," I cut her off, "yes, and my lover will shun me now that she knows the curse in my blood." I return to our room, and she follows right on my heels.  _Protect her_. It is the smallest voice, the quietest.  _Do it_.

"No—"

In our room I stop, turn, and put my fingers to her lips to silence her. I can feel the heat as it radiates from her skin, and she nearly falls toward me, so relieved is she at my touch. Her arms come about me before I can stop her, and we are pressed together before I can fight her.  _Save her_. The maelstrom batters me anew and almost steals away the breath I need for my next few words: "I think it is time we parted ways."

Her grip tightens. "Talos, Amara.  _No_. I'm not leaving you."

Now I know not whether to laugh or scream. "You—" she kisses my fingers, "you have done so, once before," I say.

"I'm not leaving."

"I will dismiss you."

"Won't stop me."

"Really?" The high pitch of my voice surprises us both, I think. "Really? You have done it before. Oh, but now… Now? Now, what? You see… a poor self-destructive madwoman in trouble, so you must rush to my aid? And after all your accusations? No."  _Save her_. "Your dismissal will be honorable. I will give you that and a sizeable amount of money. Take it to your family and leave me in peace. This cannot go on—"

Her lips press against mine with the kind of gentle force I have become accustomed to, though now with an urgency. I want to pull away. I want to. But… she has a certain way of undoing me. A certain… presence of character which floods my senses, and she exerts it now, as she lays my head against her shoulder and presses her cheek to mine. I feel the flutter of her eyelashes against my skin.

"I don't have one. A family." My arms wrap about her waist before I can stop myself, before I can tell myself that I do not want to. "So… that would be useless. I don't have anyone to impress… and… okay, so I did do it before. I was doing what I thought was right. And I'm  _sorry_ , I… I didn't know you were superstitious like that. I didn't  _know_  and… And… you're not completely mad yet… right?"

I squirm, but she holds fast. "Oh yes, just leave as soon as I fail to recognize you and forget it all! Will that satisfy your conscience?"  _Please_ …

" _No_. Fuck,  _no_  that's not what I meant."

"Why do you not just  _go_?" I wilt against her shoulder. The irony of all this is so… palpable. Finally, I actively  _wish_  to keep someone from harm, and now they fight against me.

She presses her face against my hair. On many a night, after having exhausted our passions, she would run her fingers through it in lazy and languid patterns. She would repeat how she so loves its color. How— I squeeze my eyes shut. "I can't," she says.

"You  _can_ ' _t_ ," I sneer. "I have just said you  _can_."

"No," her reply is firm, "I can't." I feel thick tension as it radiates from her whole frame.

Maybe she feels the very same tension from me, as well. "I will fall to it, no matter what you do. It is not a matter of right or wrong. I cannot be saved—"

"Amara,  _please_ ," she says as she finally pulls back far enough to look me in the eye. "That isn't why."

"Why, then?" I deadpan. I am wrung out, numb and exhausted. My heart is beating too fast and minute sparkles dust the edges of my vision.

But it is just… too late. It is too late to complain or to say I never wanted any of this, or to blame either her or myself alone for what has developed here. I may be insane, but I am not stupid.

Even so… I once again raise my fingers to her lips just as the damning "I lo—" begins to tumble out. Her green eyes widen, confused and frustrated.

"I know," I say, my voice finally soft and low. "And for that, you are perhaps just as mad as I." I stop her, again, when she makes another attempt to speak. "Stop," I admonish, and she settles. "That is my very reason for dismissing you. It is an act of mercy. One of my few." I look over her whole face and marvel at how fast and how deep I have let this woman hook into me. My sense of wonder is nearly as immense as my sense of guilt, and both of these are new to me, never before experienced.  _Please_ … "Staying will bring one of two results: death, or… something worse."

A little bit of color drains from her cheeks. She clears her throat. "Alright."

"…  _Alright_ … ?"

"Alright."

"Lydia—"

"Amara." I feel her pull herself together, stand straighter. At heart, she is a soldier, and to a soldier the promise of death weighs on the soul only about as much as one's daily bread.

That little voice in me, the oft-taciturn one with good intentions, retreats to its familiar corner. All is quiet. She stands steady, watching me, as if rooted to the spot. For my part, I am sapped nearly to the point of disorientation. "Other people have always exhausted me." I finally break our look and hang my head a little, eyes closed. "You are worse."

She pulls us close again, so that her lips are near to my ear. "Sleep a little, then we'll go."

"You will come to regret this," I say quietly, nearly in a whisper, as I lay back down.

But she says nothing as she seats herself in a nearby chair and packs and lights her pipe. I watch her do this, what is by now such a familiar motion of hers. I wonder if she knows how intently I sometimes watch her: the line that forms between her brows when she concentrates, for example, or the way she tends to fidget in her seat…

" _Quoque ego…_ " I whisper, though just loud enough for her to hear, as I begin to drift off. "And I."

Though my eyes are closed, I detect a complete halt in movement from her corner of the room. She stops moving completely, and I fall asleep while quite sure that she is watching me intently.

 

* * *

 

_16 First Seed 4E202_

 

"Necromancers," I brush grime off my sleeves and sneer. "Filthy… reeking…"

"At least they lit the place up for us," Lydia mutters, alert and jumpy. "These… things… they're bad enough when I can see them."

"Draugr, dear." I fix my hood and glare at the body by my feet. I admit, I am perversely fascinated by it. This creature has been dead for thousands of years, and yet is only marginally rotted away. Upon reflection, I find it a small wonder that contemporary Nords tolerate magic  _at all_ , now having seen the sorry fate of their highly magical ancestors. I brush at my robes until most of the necromancer's ashy remains have gone, scowling.

She huffs. "All I need to know is I've got to aim for the head."

I make a sound of agreement, and after a shared look, we press onward. We pass through a set of doors and down an unpleasantly-slippery and poorly-preserved flight of stairs, which slows us, much to my displeasure.

These damned tombs and ruins. I have not even the slightest idea as to whether or not we are nearing our goal. So far, we have both managed to pass through. There were indeed tests of my Voice: traps, magical keys, draugr… I am glad for it, though. My Voice energizes me, and suppresses my fear.

The sweating, vile tunnel suddenly opens up in an almost-searing flash of light, and I must momentarily shield my eyes. Lydia quietly swears from behind me. But when my eyes adjust, I can describe it no other way: I am stunned. A small forest stretches below us, replete with speckles of bright sunlight that filter from  _oculi_  in the rocky ceiling. "Wow," my companion says breathily.

I am about to voice my agreement when a hostile, otherworldly growl erupts from across the chamber, and two draugr and a skeleton construct rush at us. The skeleton I dispatch easily with a single shot. The draugr, however, choose to attack Lydia simultaneously, so that she is forced into maintaining a stance of defense.

I overcharge a white-hot ball of fire between my hands, and release. It connects directly with the head of the one closest to me… but then it turns, much to the mutual alarm of myself and my housecarl. She has little time to fret, however, as her own opponent once again bashes her shield.

The draugr facing me cackles, deep and vile. I raise a magical armor over myself just as it straightens its stance, rears its head back, and—

" _FUS RO DAH!_ "

I hear Lydia shout my name just as I hear a sicking percussion between my ears as my entire body is slammed against the cave wall. My vision clouds over, and the creature rasps: " _Aav dilon… Dovahkiin_ …"

I smell it before I see it. When my vision clears, I see the thing loom over me, weapon high. A great cry of struggle erupts from nearby. The draugr strikes.

" _FEIM_!" The sensation, as the ancient weapon passes through what is  _essentially_  my ghost, is nonetheless deeply disturbing. Dizzy, disoriented, I scramble away just in time to see Lydia lob off the head of the first one in a fluid, furious movement.

My heart beats wildly in my ears as I turn back to flesh and again raise my armor. I have just enough time to take a breath and leap away when it Shouts again in my direction. I roll, overcharge, and blast a more powerful spell at it this time, so that when it goes down, it does not come back up.

I lower to the ground, breathing heavily as Lydia, sweating from the magical heat I have generated, drops her shield and runs to embrace me. "By all the gods, I…" She pulls my hood down and buries her sweaty face into my sweaty neck. "How are your brains not scattered all over that wall right now?"

"Magical armor," I reply, dazed, and motion to the blue shimmer on my skin. "But my head feels like the inside of a drum. It hope it is not a concussion." I brush a few loose strands of hair from my face.

Lydia furrows her brow. "A what?"

"A concussion," I say again. When she still gives no response, I sigh. These primitive Nords and their Second-Era Medicine… "A type of head injury. Will you do something for me?"

"What do you need?" She says attentively.

I hold up my pointer finger. "I am going to create a small amount of light in front of my eyes. I need you to tell me if the pupil—the black part—becomes small. Can you do that?"

Now she looks directly into my eyes, and with close scrutiny. "Yes, definitely."

"Good. Ready? … Now." I conjure a miniature Candlelight spell, hold it for a moment, and then release it, and the chamber once again grows dusky. "Well?"

"They became smaller… Now they're getting bigger again." She leans back, then rises to her feet and pulls me up with her. "What does that mean? Is that good?"

I feel a flood of relief. "Yes." We readjust ourselves and our supplies and continue onward, our pace still slow and steady. "It seems I was lucky. The mage armor saved me from what could have been a disastrous injury. A common sign of it is that the black part of the eyes stays the same, no matter how bright the light. Normal pupils shrink in bright light, and expand in the dark."

"Ah," she replies simply. Then she gives me a little nudge. "So you're a priestess too, eh?"

" _Medica_ , in my tongue, but no," I shake my head a little. "Just some rudimentary field medicine. We would sometimes explore more dangerous areas in the Synod, so it was useful."

"You talk about the Synod a lot, you know. Do you miss it?" Even as she says this, her eyes dart to and fro. We cross into another series of chambers and lower our voices considerably.

"Sometimes," I mutter, as I halt us to assess the chamber just ahead. "I miss my thesis work more. It was brilliant, slated to be a masterpiece of a monograph on Dwemer technology. I think I will never forgive myself for destroying it." I take a deep inhale, and am equally sickened by the putrid stink of the draugr as I am by the miasma of ancient necromancy. "At least two here, maybe three…" I look down. The bodies of necromancers litter the floor, all in various states of decay. I also notice, much to my delight, several spots where the oil from their shattered lanterns has pooled on the floor. "Stand back, I have an idea."

She obliges, and I straighten my back and Shout: " _ZUL MEY GUT_!"  _Voice… Fool… Far…_  It rings in my head. The draugr burst from their coffins, right on cue, and charge at us. " _Valete_ ," I say quietly, and with a small smile, before I cast the whole floor into flames. They never manage even to come near to us.

Lydia whistles, impressed. "Resourceful. But ah… how are we gonna get past now?"

I make no verbal response. Instead, I gather my energies and weave them into the magical signs for snow, ice, blizzard… My companion makes a sound of astonishment when I release the magic and, suddenly, the whole room is buried under a half a foot of snow. I look back at her. "Like that," I say, and gesture onward. "Shall we?"

"Aren't you, well, tired? I mean, you just created a blizzard in an underground tomb…" She says as we trudge through the snow and enter into the next series of hallways.

"A little, but this is my life's work, these displays of magic. I have more stamina than most."

The next series of halls and chambers involve the same exhaustive fights with a seemingly endless, nauseating barrage of moldering Nords, so that we are all but drained of strength by the time we reach the largest chamber and all goes quiet after I Shout three foul draugr over an interior cliff. I scowl after them: that their brains were the first things to rot away is immediately evident.

"Hey, look!" Lydia says excitedly as she darts toward a nearby throne and chest. She pulls at the lid. "Shit, it's locked."

I approach her, smirking. "I thought that Nords were vehemently against graverobbing?" Nevertheless, I pull a lockpick from my pocket and crouch before the chest. It  _is_  rather enticingly large…

"The dead don't need to eat," she replies with a shrug.

I hum in agreement. "Oh, these old locks. It is always one or the other with these ancient Nords," I say as I get to work. "Either far too easy or next to impossible." In a moment, the lock pops open. "Far too easy."

"How would you know—oh,  _wow_ ," she breathes in astonishment—and I can only agree—when we see that the chest is nearly full with gems and gold. "I… don't think I've ever seen so much money in my life."

"Mm," I agree. This sum would prove an excellent start for a complete renovation of the Sanctuary… I open my satchel. "How much can you carry?" I say as I start helping myself to the chest's contents.

Lydia drops her rucksack and opens it. "A good amount, I guess, we'll see… Wait. How… are you doing that?" She motions toward my satchel.

"Doing what?"

"That bag is so tiny, but you're shoveling all that stuff in." She approaches and attempts to peer inside. "It's dark as a cave! How…?"

"Ah, yes," I reply, finally comprehending. I then continue with availing myself of the treasure. "It is bigger on the inside."

"Bigger?" She watches me for another short moment, and then starts filling her own pack. "How?"

I give a small laugh. "I will tell you what my childhood master said to me about it: 'It would take me at least two years to explain the mechanics of it to you fully, and then another ten to make you understand.'"

Lydia just sighs.

We finish and approach our next obstacle: a puzzle of three pillars followed by three consecutive gates. I do not even need to scent it to detect that there is a strong magic here. As I approach one pillar, it glows bright and with an eerie, almost metallic sound, like a tuning fork. The first gate opens. When I step away from the pillar, the gate closes.

"Hmm," I hum to myself. "This is  _ancient_  magic. Just…" I touch the second pillar. It, too, glows with a similar sound, and the second gate opens. "Oh, you are  _beautiful_." The magic is warm and pleasant to the touch.

"Are you talking to a magical rock?" Her voice is incredulous, but tinged with humor. She approaches one of the pillars, but it does not react. "I guess it's just for Dragonborn."

"Yes," I say, lost in thought. "I will have to find a way to bring you through."

"Ah," she says, her relief palpable, "I'm glad we're on the same page about that."

"I will not leave you behind." I visually measure the distance between the pillars and the gates. This will require more than just  _running_ … The idea hits me, and I smirk almost evilly. "Come here, please, Lydia." I gesture us both toward the outermost gate, and together we stand just before it. "Are you able to carry me on your back?"

She smiles a little, and looks me over just once: a quick, up-and-down motion of the eyes. "Wouldn't be the  _first_  time…" She says with a wink.

_Here_ , of all places. My body's reaction to her, even in a place like  _this_ , is almost immediate. Even with us both covered in grime, sweat, and gore, she makes me desirous. Even after all the fighting, all the drama we have been through of late… by Sithis. "Yes, well," I give my head a little admonishing shake. "You must carry me on your back and run through the pillars and toward the gates. And," I take her hand into mine, "do you trust me?"

She squeezes my hand. "Yes, of course." She repositions her rucksack so that she now carries it against her bosom, and crouches down a little so that I can hop on. Her armor is cold and bulky. The  _last_  time she carried me in any capacity she was much, much warmer… and far less clothed. "Why'd you ask me that?" She says as she adjusts me on her hips.

"I will have to give us a little extra… speed."

Even through her armor, I can feel her tense up. "Ah but… Amara…"

"Either we do this, Lydia, or you may walk all the way back to the entrance and wait for me there."

She huffs. "Boost of speed it is, then." She shifts me one more time. "Ready?"

"Yes."

She takes off at a sprint through the pillars, which detect my presence and subsequently open their gates. I tense my upper arms against her shoulders, press my palms against her ears and Shout: " _WULD NAH KEST_!" I do my best to guide us both through the wind, but Lydia topples over and we end up in a heap on the other side.

"Oh, sweet  _Talos_ ," my companion groans as she sits up. "That… was awful. I never want to do that again."

I, too, sit up. "It could have been worse," I grumble as I rub at where my bottom connected with the stone floor. "A Greybeard initiate once tried to use the whole Shout without knowing fully how. He blew himself to pieces—literal  _pieces_. It took nearly two weeks to find and get rid of all the little bits of him scattered around the courtyard. Arngeir told me once."

She looks at me with alarm. "And  _why_  didn't you tell me that before?"

I lean over and kiss her dirt-smeared forehead. "Why worry you unnecessarily?" I finish with a sweet smile, and rise. She follows me, grumbling.

The final chamber, the burial place of the so-called Jurgen Windcaller, is surprisingly free of draugr. Statues rise up to greet me as I approach the site, and my prize rests on a small pillar just above the sarcophagus. I take it, and indeed, the horn all but  _pulsates_  with holy magic. I turn it over in my hands. It is obviously ancient, though beautifully etched and preserved.

"Is that it, then?" Lydia says, a hand on her hip. "I was envisioning something more… exciting, I guess?"

"Yes," I motion toward the sarcophagus. "I was nearly convinced that we would have to fight him, or some such thing. Or that the horn would have been stolen by some thief or meddler. Or… oh,  _something_  frustrating, certainly."

"A thief getting in here is impossible though," Lydia replies with a laugh. We make our way toward a door at the far end of the room. "Only Dragonborn can get in. So, you could've ruled that out, at least."

"Ah, I suppose," I say as we start up an incline to what I  _hope_  is the exit, and I give my companion a tired smile.

 

* * *

 

_Author's Note:_

 

_1\. Someone_ _ please _ _tell me you got and/or enjoyed the "It's bigger on the inside" reference. There's nothing I love more in a story/gaming environment/etc. than a well-placed easter egg. :)_

_2\. I hate Delphine. I hate Esbern. I hate the Blades. That is all._


	11. The Mind of Madness

**Chapter 11: The Mind of Madness**

 

_19 First Seed, 4E202_

 

Ungolim had been thorough enough to leave a message for us when we passed back through Morthal. It consists of a single line:  _Lead found, will send word again soon._

_Lead found._  The potential sources of such a lead fill me with dread, and my imagination can do nothing but conjure all the morbid scenarios that this single, small phrase so frustratingly fails to supply.

I can see it in my mind's eye, perhaps all too clearly: my mad sibling, filled with rage and confusion, lashing out at civilians with the potent magic well-known among our kin. Either he kills until he comes to his senses and takes his own life out of guilt, or he kills until some brave—or lucky—guard finally manages to put an arrow through his skull.

Or he is wandering aimlessly, all his magic, memory, and sense of self-preservation forgotten. He is diseased, covered in filth, laughing and bleeding. And the laughter will not stop, no matter how badly his body might break down. The laughter… is always the very last thing to cease.

My head spins with more and more scenarios of this kind until I, too, begin to hear whispers. I must try to quell them, push them down, and it is as if I were trying to swallow my own sick.

Even the Thu'um does only little to help me now. A heap of massive bones lies a short distance behind us: the remains of another defeated challenger, whose soul is now forfeit to my superior Voice. Even this, the infusion of the lifeforce of what is essentially a lesser god, does nothing to lighten the burden of my apprehension.

It is thus that, when at high noon Lydia and I take notice of a rider approaching us at a desperate pace, my dread only doubles. We are halfway to Whiterun, having decided that, should we opt to wait for further word from Ungolim, the inaction would only prove harmful. Our pace is not incredibly hurried, and it is for this reason that the rider manages to reach us in short order.

" _Madame_!" He calls out over the wind: " _Madame_! Dragonborn!"

Pheletes. I stop my horse and Lydia follows suit. The man who thunders toward us is well-dressed and has the look of a merchant, but his features carry a grave expression which serves only to sink my spirits further. The sensation only worsens as he pulls to a forceful stop before us, his horse panting and sweating beneath him.

" _Madame_!" He says hurriedly as he pulls a missive from the bag at his side. "Your man gave me this. I was tasked to deliver it to you with utmost haste."

"Thank you." My voice is faint. I take the missive and toss him a coin. "Must you wait for a reply?"

His expression of concern is one which reaches through his costume. "That depends on what  _Madame_  decides to do after reading it."

I nod and, fingers trembling, I open the hastily-written message:

 

_He is still in Solitude, Domina. He never was able to leave. He has been thrown in prison for public disturbance, and I have been unable to free him. The law allows only his next of kin to take him into private custody, and I dare not break him out, given the delicacy of both his situation and yours. I will remain in Solitude until you order otherwise._

—  _U_

 

The missive crumples in my trembling fists. Prison. These sniveling provincials have thrown a scion of House Aestus in  _prison_ , on the same damp and rotting floors as the thieves and beggars. The paper burns to ashes in my hands, all in a flash of my mounting anger. I grit my teeth. "Rest your horse," I say to Pheletes, "I will go to Solitude myself."

"But—" Lydia starts, but I silence her when I finally turn and she sees my expression.

"We go," I say, my fury coursing through me like a boiling river. I nod in the direction of Whiterun: "Or  _you_  go."

She bows her head, subdued.

 

* * *

 

_22 First Seed, 4E202_

 

I find my Silencer awaiting us at a table in the Winking Skeever Inn, a cup of tea in his hand. It clatters to the little saucer underneath it and he is on his feet as soon as I burst into the room, having nearly thrown the front door off its hinges. We need not speak to one another: He leaves a few coins on the table, instructs the innkeeper on the care of our sparse baggage, and leads us right back out the door.

The path to the city prison is a short one, but with each step, I relive a lifetime of soul-rending horrors: the countless men and women of my House, fallen to the deterioration of the mind, the body, and the spirit. No part of them is safe, no part of them is sacred. They become less than human: just dangerous, crazed spirits with unnaturally deep wells of destructive power. And it cannot be stopped. It can never be stopped.

We descend a dark stairwell from a side street, and pass through the door to the dungeons underneath the castle walls. The air is heavy and rank, and lit by oily torches.

We are stopped by a guard sitting at a desk, just before we reach the main cell block. He holds up his hand. "Halt," he says to Ungolim. "I've already said ye can't take the madman with ye. Not without proof of kinship."

"Yes, and I am here to take him into  _my_  custody," I say as I step forward. I reach into my satchel and pull from it a ring: one which, truly, I had hoped after my first few weeks in Skyrim to never look upon again. "I am of his House, and I will take him and pay his bounty." I show the ring to the guard, and even in the poor light, the crest of House Aestus glimmers in finely-wrought gold.

The guard leans in closer for a better look. "It matches the one what he had 'round his neck," he says as he pulls my brother's ring, suspended from a small chain, from a drawer by his knee. "Was all he had on him, other than scraps of clothing. He went mad in the street, raving about numbers and some kind of scheme 'gainst his left eye." The jailer stands and pulls a set of keys from his belt. "We put him in solitary because he started screaming. Wouldn't stop. Ye can take him, ma'am, but ye need to keep him off the streets."

"Noted," I say through my teeth as he leads us deeper into the complex. We stop at a dark cell cut out of the stone walls and far away from any fresh air or heat.

The jailer puts a key in the heavy iron door. "Be prepared, I dunno what he'll do."

The door opens with a jarring screech.

And there is my elder brother, filthy, laughing, and with rusty chains binding him to the stone floor. Bile rises up in my throat as I haltingly approach him. I can barely see him in the darkness, but the fiery color of his hair, even with such a lack of light, is unmistakable. " _Leon_ ," I say in a choked whisper, " _Leon, frater meus_ …" I speak our dialect, anything that might reach him. " _Mene audis_ …?"

He looks at me, though somehow he also does not. " _Mara… mea!_ " He says between fits of laughter. "I hear eagles… screaming maroon like the…  _numeri unus, duo, tres,_  I gave them names. I hear it! They  _scream_!" He roars with frustration. He roars until I am forced to grasp his bare shoulders and shake him, tears streaming down my cheeks. " _Clangunt!_ "

 

* * *

 

_23 First Seed, 4E202_

 

Sequestered on the upper floor of the inn, painstakingly washed and clothed, the shadow of my brother huddles, shivering with fever, in a corner of the room furthest from me. He watches me with fearful eyes, though what he may  _actually_ see is unknown to me.

I am at a loss, wrung-out and now living through the worst imaginable hell: the fall of Leon, and the blatant imminence of my own descent.

I approach him, slowly. He is muttering to himself and his eyes shift to and fro. I attempt to stroke his hair, but he ignores me. Instead he grimaces and brings his clenched fists to his forehead. "Bad here,  _Mara mea_!" He gasps out. "Two and Three are so loud! Yelling!" Then the giggling… but there are tears in his eyes. "Not even funny!" Then the laughter. He tries to stifle it… but he cannot.

"Leon! Leon… look at me." I hold his face and try to calm him down. "The voices are not real! They are not—"

"Mara…" He laughs, though tears stream down his face. "We have to go."

"Go where?" I say, as Lydia solemnly enters the room with two cups of warm spiced wine.

Smile, frown, smile, a puff of air. "Do you hear them, Mara?" A snort. "Gods, they cannot sing at all."

"Who, Leon?"

He slams his fist on the floor. "We have to  _go_!" And he pulls the Necromancer's Amulet from underneath his shirt, completely oblivious to the burns that it makes on his skin. "They want it! Slap them in the face! Ha!" He rises, darts past me and starts to dance with it. "Mara, Mara,  _Marella_ , Mara can't hear  _Duo_ and  _Tres_!"

"Where did you get that?" I nearly shout as I try to snatch the Amulet from him.

Leon just laughs. "Time to dance,  _Marella_! Time to dance with Two and Three!" He mimes as if the Amulet were his partner and twirls, at nearly inhuman speed, down the stairs and right out of the inn.

I follow him in a panic. He notices and takes off running. I chase him, Lydia and Ungolim close behind. We run in this way until he reaches the Blue Palace, at the front facade of which he makes a sharp right and flees down a narrow alley. " _Leon_!" I cry after him.

Suddenly, he stops. He looks at me, and his expression is the most composed I have seen yet. He reaches down to a man-sized grate in the wall, though he never takes his eyes off of me. With unnatural strength, he rips the grate away and tosses it to the side. "Amara." He stares at me a moment longer, then crawls into the hole.

I scramble after him, as do Lydia and Ungolim. The short tunnel ends in a long-unused hearth, which we all crawl from, covered in old soot. Leon stands a ways down from us, at the end of a dank and dusty hall. There is an energy here, one which… disturbs me… immensely.

My brother is breathing hard, though with a mad grin on his face. I sprint to his side and grab him by the collar. He looks at us all, we who surround him, and barks with unbridled laughter. "Then… we all dance!" And he holds up the Amulet.

The world shifts. I tumble in and out of mists and I stare at the eyes which stare at me, and I shout at the voices that speak. "Little Mara!" They cackle. "Our  _Marella_!"

I land hard in the dirt, and I spit it out as I pull myself to my hands and knees. When I raise my eyes, I see two men seated at a table. My brother lies on the ground next to me, giggling. He will say nothing otherwise. I look about myself: Lydia and Ungolim are nowhere to be found. Shakily, I stand. I feel rather nauseous. The conversation of the men at the table filters slowly to my mind as I approach the table:

"More tea, Pelly my dear?"

"Oh, I couldn't. Goes right through me. Besides, I have so many things to do… So many undesirables to contend with. Naysayers. Buffoons. Detractors. Why, my headsman hasn't slept in three days!"

"You are far too hard on yourself, my dear, sweet, homicidally insane Pelagius. What would the people do without you? Dance? Sing? Smile? Grow old? You are the best Septim that's ever ruled. Well, except for that Martin fellow… and he turned into a dragon god, and that's hardly sporting… You know, I was there for that whole sordid affair. Marvelous time! Butterflies, blood, a fox, a severed head… Oh, and the cheese! To die for."

"Yes, yes, as you've said, countless times before…"

"Hmph! Well then… if you're going to be like that… Perhaps it's best I take my leave then. A good day to you, sir! I say good day!"

One of the men disappears from his chair. That leaves only the one, who reclines in his throne and grins widely at me. I know his face. Though his hair is white, I could never mistake his face. It is famous, strewn across Tamriel in paintings and tapestries. "…  _Patriarch_."

Leon laughs.

"Wait, let me guess! A message? No? Ah!" Aestus the Fire Hand jerks out of his throne and jumps on to the table. "There are  _intruders_  in my addled mind!" And he turns his head to the side and slaps on his ear as if to shake out water. Lydia and Ungolim fall out of his head, and land hard on the table at his feet. Both are alive, though dazed. "Well, what an intrusion on a man's privacy!" He leans toward me, and puts his hand to his mouth as if you tell a secret. "I tell you, girl, these two have seen some  _things_."

I just stand before him, dumbstruck. All I can really say is: "You are… Aestus."

He sits on a roast turkey, his finger to his chin in thought. "Now that!" He laughs. "I haven't heard that in ages! Or has it been hours?" He scrutinizes me. "You're not Florentia! And you're definitely not Viator… well…" He laughs harder. "Though I  _told_  the boy not to experiment with all that Alteration magic!"

Lydia slowly starts to come out of her stupor. She groans painfully. "No. I am Amara Leone."

He disappears and reappears right in front of me. He grabs me by the hands and spins us both in a circle. "Sheogorath! Charmed! But I don't know you, little granddaughter. How long has it been? A decade? Ten?"

"Two hundred years."

"Is that all?" He skips over to my brother and picks him up by the collar. "My, my, ripe as a fruit cake, this one!" He grins at me. "I guess you're not too far off, either!"

I scowl.

"You know what it is?" He continues, cackling. "It's a little gift I like to give from me, to myself!" More laughter. "You, too!"

My hands clench into fists. I feel the magic that seeps to them. " _You?_ " Electricity crackles up and down my arms. "You  _cursed_  us? Your own kin?"

"Bah! You must be mine! You remind me of when I was young…" He takes on a dreamy look as he dances about. "Though of course, all I cared about was riding narwhals. Or… hold on…" He stops to think. "Or was that another me?"

Lydia is finally on her feet. Ungolim, too, now rises. " _You cursed us!_ Your own children! Your wife! It is because of you that all of us meet a violent end. And  _that_ is after spending our whole lives dreading it!"

He looks as me as if he were a doting parent. "Only one of my own would challenge and shout at a god! The Mad God, no less! Hah! But no, dearie, it was just a prank! A little one for Viator! Oh, but…!" He doubles over, laughing. "I guess I lost track of time!"

The Thu'um swirls up in my blood. " _A prank_." My voice is riddled with a deep and otherworldly timbre. " _A prank!_  Your whole line suffers,  _loses themselves_ , for your amusement? They who honor you!  _You!_ "

Sheogorath laughs in my face. "Suffers?" Then he steps back and looks around. "They're laughing… to death! It's brilliant! Hilarious! Who does comedy better than us? I mean, now that I think about it…" He sinks to his knees and starts to dig a hole in the dirt. He then reaches down inside the hole and grasps at something, and I hear another man laughing: his laugh is familiar, and the realization hits me far too late.

And up comes Cicero, cackling, weeping, into his ancestor's arms. I freeze in place.  _I had never thought… I had never…_

A scream, from behind me: a combination of fury and terror and pain. Lydia charges. "You're the one!" She swings, Cicero dodges. Sheogorath looks bored. "You killed him! All of them!"

Cicero just laughs, knives raised, playing with her.  _His speed, his strength…_  I understand. And I watch as her desperate attack turns into a losing battle, as he grows tired of her onslaught. She will die.  _She will…_

I rush between them and force Cicero away with a wall of fire. "Back!" I shout. " _Back!_ "

His beady little eyes widen, as if he has only just now noticed my presence. Lydia struggles behind me, so I turn and grasp her about the waist. She wears no armor. " _Again_ , Listener?" I freeze. The cold sinks deep down, piercing my guts. "You want to save the pretty guard,  _again_?"

Lydia stills. Sheogorath bursts out laughing. "Oh now  _that's_  a good one! Like a chip off the old block." He disappears and reappears next to Cicero, and slaps a hand on his shoulder. "I was Listener once.  _And_  the Gray Fox! I was both!" Laughter takes them over so strongly that they eventually fall to the ground, shaking, weeping with it.

" _Listener_ …" Lydia whispers, and pulls back a little to look into my eyes. "Blue eyes. It was blue eyes… I saw…" I watch as she accepts the truth, as she backs further away, shaken to the core. "The body had brown eyes. And… by the gods… that was you. Your  _voice_. I recognized it. You got away…" She wraps her arms around her stomach, head bowed. "That was  _you_."

I want to speak, to say something… but no words come. Nothing. I am frozen to the spot. In the corner of my vision I see Ungolim move, ready to defend me from her.

"What a mess!" Sheogorath roars jovially. "Tell you what, little Mara, I feel bad for you…" Lydia and I face each other, each without seeing. "… Are you listening,  _Listener_? Not very good at your job, are you?" She grips her sword. Her knuckles are white. "I'll undo that little prank you're so upset about, alright? No, no, you don't even have to thank me…"

Lydia raises her head. She gathers herself together, stands straight, and like the excellent soldier she is, defiantly looks Death straight in the face. "Amara Leone Aestus, Listener of the Dark Brotherhood assassins' cult, I don't know where we are…" A soothing sensation erupts from within my skull, and a kind of clarity follows in its wake. It is of a kind I have never before known. "But by order of the Jarl of Whiterun," I feel it: the weight of two hundred years' worth of unspeakable horror lifting from my consciousness, "I place you under arrest for the murder of 14 Whiterun guards and their Captain."

Silence. In my head, my mind, my thoughts: silence. Stillness. Privacy. "No, Ungolim," I say gently, as he makes to move between the Captain and I. "Stand down."

From off to the side, Leon climbs to his knees and groans. Cicero appears at my shoulder, expressionless. Lydia's eyes flicker to him, and she raises her blade. "I reserve the right to execute you, jester."

"You may find that difficult," is his sole reply.

They are just about to cross blades again when, finally, it is Sheogorath who moves between them. "Alright, alright, you mortals! Drop your butter knives and listen up!" He waves both hands and their weapons disintegrate. "You've made a complete mess of my family reunion! And now our time is up because  _some of you've_  got another appointment with divinity today!" He laughs. "When it rains, it pours, eh?" He ribs at Cicero, who no longer laughs along with him. "You're a sorry lot and I'm…  _bored_! So, off you go! So nice to meet you, and  _do_  come again!"

A field of light overtakes my vision and whites out all my thoughts. Just before I lose consciousness, however, her expression from that day, furious and heartbroken, appears before my mind's eye. I cannot unsee it, and I weep.

 

* * *

 

_?_

 

I think this is a dream, but it feels so real that I cannot know for sure: dreams feel real, too, until you wake up.

We face each other again, Lydia and I. We can shout, we can scream. We can be ashamed of the fact that we are both naked. We can watch the pain of the other: my guilt, her brokenness. We can attempt to move toward or away from each other, but it never works. Where we are, is where we are intended to be.

That is, of course, until we are forced to move toward each other. I see it, then, the force which binds us this way: spiritual, yes, but almost like tree roots. Almost. We move closer, close enough to see too much. She struggles and does not want to look at me. I wilt, exposed and weary and filled with self-loathing. But then we are moved close enough to touch, to press fully, to kiss.

She struggles. I weep. Then closer, close enough that it hurts and we crush one another's bones. It hurts enough that we scream from it, and just when I feel that my body will break against her… I pass  _through_ her.

I see it all. _I see it_ ,for the briefest moment: flashes, instances of memory. Things far too quick for me to catch clearly other than for their  _feeling_ , and of that, there is such abundance. So much so that the tears come harder when I land on the grass, flooded with all this. So much so that an incredible heat takes me over, hot nearly to the point of painful burning, pulsating like a heartbeat from deep within the core of myself…

 

* * *

 

_?_

 

The grass is soft. It is lush, healthy, and does well as a cushion for my body, which lies supine and limp under the dappled sunlight filtering through the leafy canopy above. It is a peaceful silence that I hear, serene in ways perhaps unnatural to human experience.

But I am numb. Cold.

I raise my head and survey the situation. I lie in a prison composed of thick tree roots, enclosed on all sides but for gaps large enough to fit a single hand. The scenery beyond my prison, I come to realize, is that of the Eldergleam Sanctuary. This must be where Sheogorath transported us…

A wave of nausea rises up and I groan loudly and roll over, fighting it. This alerts Lydia, who had been sitting, slumped, against the outer wall of my gnarled cage. She turns, scrutinizes me briefly, and then turns away again. "Did you… have a strange dream, just now?"

"I did, yes… And you?" I should move, but…

"Yeah, but I woke up before you." She laughs bitterly. "The only reason you're not dead right now is because I can't find a way through those roots."

Then the tears start in earnest, running in small streams down the sides of my cheekbones. "I do not know how to respond to that."

"I guess you wouldn't." A pause, then. Silence again. The air is heavy enough to choke us both. "Do you hate yourself?" It is barely a whisper.

I squeeze my eyes shut. " _Yes_."

"You should."

How does a mere mortal describe this anguish? It is as if my body were being crushed from within the palm of a giant. No… it is so much worse. "Lydia, I—"

"No, don't say you're sorry," she cuts me off, though her voice is still quiet. "It's not worth it."

"I am… filled with regret. You must know this."

"You should be, though really I don't know if I actually believe you." She will not turn around, nor look at me.

"It is the truth." I do not raise my voice, just as she does not. Both of us, I think, are far too weary of spirit.

"You know…" She leans her head back against my cage. "It's always been hard for me to open up to people. That's what happens, I guess, when you grow up in the streets and people would just as soon kill you as they'd feed you. You were different." She turns ever so slightly, but then seems to decide against it. I still do see the glistening on her cheek. "I  _wanted_  to get close to you. You were beautiful, mysterious, powerful, reserved. And then I saw you were… selfish, sadistic, immeasurably fucked up. But then, I… just figured you should be allowed your faults, considering the duty on your shoulders. Talos above, if only I knew."

"I could not have told you," I whisper, weak with guilt.

"And you used me, you lied. You were playing some kind of fucked-up game."

" _No,_ I—"

"You're a goddamn monster."

Something throbs in me, some nameless heat and its heartbeat-rhythm. "What I feel for you is genuine. It is you, too, who has led me to bear my role as  _Dovahkiin_. You have affected me so deeply, I… I am not the same as before."

Another sad, bitter laugh. "Yeah." She pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "Yeah."

I hear a stirring-sound in the distance. After a moment, a desperate voice follows it: " _Domina?_ " Then, louder: " _Domina!_ "

"He's your Silencer, isn't he?" Lydia's voice still holds a quiet, bitter humor. "I studied the Dark Brotherhood extensively, you know, after you and that jester killed most of my friends." Her face falls into her hands. "Of course I'd be fucking the  _Listener_ , of all people. Of course I would."

"He will kill you on sight," I say, quietly. "You learned my identity and you threatened me. At this moment, I will not be able to stop him."

" _Domina!_  Can you hear me?" Ungolim shouts.

"You know his strength, Lydia. He is one of the most accomplished assassins known to me…" The tears come again in full force. "Run, Lydia. As quietly as you can, I beg you.  _Run_."

" _Domina!_ "

She stands, though she still does not look at me. "I hope, for your sake, that we don't meet again." Her deerskin boots are, thankfully, much quieter than her ebony ones. She is a terrible sneak, true, but I can only hope that Ungolim will be properly distracted once I begin shouting for him. I close my eyes for a brief moment and try to stem the tide of tears. When I open them again, she is gone.

I make to shout for Ungolim, but what rises up instead is the Thu'um: it is a sound of such intense grief that my prison rattles with it, and dust falls from the rocky ceiling, high above. I Shout until he finds me, sequestered just at the base of the Eldergleam, his hands over his ears in an ineffective attempt to deflect some of my deafening roar.

My breath comes fast and laboured when I stop, and I sit up. Ungolim kneels now before my cage, near to the spot that Lydia had just vacated. " _Domina_ …"

I merely stare at him for a moment, unable to speak. Numb, thoughtless, I respond only with action: I reach deep into my satchel and pull out Nettlebane, which thankfully I had never gotten around to selling. A few small nicks in the roots, and I crawl out free. We stand and face each other, my Silencer and I, and still no words come.

He fills in. "Your brother waits near the entrance. He is conscious… and coherent… but the Necromancer's Amulet has left a number of small burns on his body, and he is malnourished and in pain. I… left him with a few vials of health potion,  _Domina_ , before coming to find you."

I nod, and begin my shaking, shuffling walk in that direction. I am incredibly weak, even though all of my being thrums with some nameless _force_. I am propelled merely to move, and only to move.

I find Leon soon enough, sitting propped up against the side of a rock. His eyes flicker up to mine when I kneel, exhausted, at his side. With his unburned hand, he reaches for my own. "You have done the impossible,  _Mara mea_." His voice is soft and a little weak. "We are freed…" Tears well up in his eyes. "My thoughts are so… quiet. They are mine."

He stiffens a little from the pain when I move to embrace him, but he does not pull away. "Leon…" I finally gasp.

" _Scio_. I know, Mara," he says gently. "I know."

 

* * *

 

_27 First Seed, 4E202_

 

We take several days' rest in the Vilemyr Inn, in nearby Ivarstead. In hindsight it was likely a poor choice of location to lay low, considering Lydia's connections here, but no one has accosted us as of yet.

Having locked ourselves inside the largest room of the inn, and with Ungolim on guard beside the door, Leon and I sit around the small table there, and talk long into the night.

I first relate to my brother all that has transpired since my flight from Cyrodiil: Helgen, my initiation into the Dark Brotherhood, my quick rise to the top, the assassination of Titus Mede, the rise of the dragons, and my recent actions as the  _Dovahkiin_. His face holds a perpetual frown, though he does not show disgust, nor does he shout or become angry. Finally able to sit upright and stay awake long enough to have this conversation, he merely listens until my summary is finished. Everything else aside, the relief I feel at this fact alone is almost too much to bear:  _this_  is the brother I remember. He is patient, intelligent, and gentle; not the raving, self-destructive madman that he had been but a week ago.

"It was you who did that," he finally says, after a brief silence. "You killed the Emperor."

"I did, yes," I reply, steady under the weight of his gaze.

"Do you regret it?" His features hold no particular expression.

Another brief pause. "No, not really."

He leans back in his chair, head upturned in thought. "You have killed many others besides."

"I have."

"And do you regret those?" He rubs at a burn mark that is finally on the mend.

"Some."

"Hmm," he hums, more to himself than to me. "Our House has tried… many times… to cast off its darker habits. Mara," he fixes me, his tone serious, "you are… not the first of our kin to walk as a Dark Brother, nor are you a particular… rarity. Our Mother told me this… before she died."

"She is…?"

"Yes."

I grip at the fabric of my robes, still far too numb to experience again the true depth of my grief: this is but one more wave of tragedy to wash into the ocean of others. "I see."

"And now… another of us must rise to the gambit of the gods." He rests his hand over my balled fist. "We are none of us clean. I, too," he shakes his head a little, "have soiled my hands in the past."

I look up at him, then, and I see the affection in his gaze. "Will you stand by me?"

"Yes. You have saved us all from the madness. I think perhaps… now… we may all of us begin to mend our relationship with the gods."

"Perhaps," I reply as I squeeze his hand. "But then I must continue with this journey of mine."

"Then I will accompany you," he says softly.

I raise his knuckles, both my hands being clasped about his one, to my cheek. I have no more that I can say to him, so powerful is my relief.

" _Domina_?" Ungolim, a little apprehensive at the intrusion, calls to me.

"You may speak, Ungolim," I say, still cradling my brother's hand.

"Forgive me, but what will be done about the housecarl? It seems she has… disappeared. As has that other… scion of your House."

_Lydia_ … I imagine her running in the dark of the night, alone, furious, betrayed and broken. "Leave her," I say sadly. "Just… let her go."

 

* * *

 

_Author's Note:_

 

_1\. In Oblivion, there is a DLC pack called the Shivering Isles. For those who haven't played it, it essentially sets the player (i.e. the Champion of Cyrodiil) on a questline to eventually become the Daedric Prince Sheogorath. This now ties up all that business with Amara's mysterious hero-ancestor: his sudden disappearance, and the subsequent curse upon his entire bloodline. Now we know the true colors of Aestus the Fire Hand and all his progeny, and what is just the sheer humanity of their dilemma._

_2\. I know I've used a lot of Latin in this chapter. Sorry about that… I just wanted to handle everything with as much realism as possible. But no worries, they're all really simple phrases and easily translatable. If you're still having trouble and you want to know about a phrase, though, feel free to ask._

_3\. Leon kept calling Amara "Marella" in this chapter. It's just a nickname: a combination of the short form of her name, Mara (ironic, right? :P), and the Latin diminutive suffix "-ella". Basically it just means "Little Mara"._

_P.S.: By no means whatsoever am I using your intellectual property to alleviate the crushing burden of my student loans, Bethesda._


	12. The Throat of the World

**Chapter 12: The Throat of the World**

 

_3 Rain's Hand, 4E202_

 

The massive doors of High Hrothgar grind shut behind us. Leon props himself against the nearest wall, short of breath, his new heavy cloak covered in frost. He is still somewhat weakened from his ordeal, and the climb here had not been kind to him.

I move to throw his arm over my shoulder and assist him along, but Ungolim reaches him first. In a fluid motion, his features quite passive, my Silencer takes my brother about the waist and guides him further into the now-familiar complex, where he may be set down upon a bench. Throughout this whole process, Ungolim's movements consist of their usual grace, but seem inordinately gentle. This gladdens me, all things considered: Leon is still technically an outsider to the Dark Brotherhood, and the fact that Ungolim has not mentioned that he should be killed for all that he knows is a reprieve.

After all, it may prove imprudent for us to adhere very strictly to Brotherhood protocol, at this stage of affairs.

I approach Borri, who kneels, meditating, in the main hall, and whisper to him that I must find Arngeir. He rises and bows to me in the old way, and guides me to his master. I gesture to Ungolim that he and Leon may remain behind, but my brother rises again with a small and defiant smile, and together they follow me.

I find myself plagued by a keen sensation of nausea, and it only worsens as I traverse further through these dark stone halls.  _Lydia_ … It is as if her name suffuses this place, where we spent our peaceful month together. I swallow thickly. Her words have haunted me, day and night, ever since I told her to run. Now, though, I know that what haunts me is not the result of some mad hallucination: no, it is merely the manifestation of my own pain and guilt. I wince as Borri and I pass by the hall which leads to what used to be  _our_ sleeping chamber… and I decide, quickly, that I can not allow myself to remain in this place for much longer.

I have only just recently secured the lucidity of my mind, after all, and I cannot risk its loss again by staying here. Action, I know, is the only thing that will keep me stable.

Borri stops, finally, before a dimly-lit alcove cut out of the wall, and there I find Arngeir kneeling in prayer. I take in a quiet breath to speak, but Arngeir speaks first: "Ah, you've retrieved the Horn. I can feel its power radiating from you." He rises, gracefully, and turns to face me. "Well done." He looks at me for a moment, silently. "You've endured something… I can see it." He glances in the direction of my companions. "Perhaps it would be better not to ask?"

"It would be better, yes," I say, still unsettled. I pull the Horn from my satchel and make my best effort to speak steadily. "What… am I to do with it?"

"You will receive our blessing," He replies, gently. "Then we will teach you a new Shout… It is the one which will clear the path to the top of the mountain. Our Grandmaster wishes to speak with you." He turns his attention to my companions again. "It would be wise for the both of you to go to the courtyard. The force from all our voices could very well render you deaf, otherwise."

"Go," I agree, when they look to me for affirmation. "I will withstand it."

Leon says a few words of encouragement in our dialect before he goes, following Ungolim back outside. I watch after them for a few moments.

"Your pain is very pronounced,  _Dovahkiin_ ," Arngeir says as he leads me back to the main hall. "It radiates from you, like some kind of heat."

All the Greybeards stand in a circle in the main hall, awaiting me. "I cannot quell it," I murmur.

"Balance,  _Dovahkiin_." Arngeir gestures that I stand in the middle. "You can quell your own force just as well as you can stop the wind."

They face me, all the Greybeards: the same reclusive group of monks whom I had scoffed at mere months ago. They face me, preparing to impart a powerful blessing. I feel the rumbling in the old stones beneath my boots. Then, as one, they Speak:

" _Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau…_ "  _Long has the Stormcrown languished, with no worthy brow to sit upon…_

The blast of their combined power hits me like a thunderstrike. I am almost choked by it before I shift my stance to better accommodate the sudden influx, and even still, the force is incredible.

" _Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth…_ "  _By our breath we bestow it now to you in the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, and in the name of Atmora of Old…_

I inhale quickly, comprehending…

" _Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok…_ "  _You are Ysmir now, the Dragon of the North. Hearken to it._

 _Ysmir_ … The stone floor ceases its quaking, and I am able, finally, to take in an unhindered breath and straighten my spine.  _Ysmir_. If I were not still so numb from all the… well… insanity of the past week, I think I would grow ever the more bitter over this new appellation. Now, however, I just close my eyes.  _What would you think now, Lydia, my dear?_  The thought comes, unbidden.  _I am but an ascension away from the position of your beloved Talos._  I would cringe and, I think, scream, were I to come under the impression that these thoughts were not my own… but they  _are_  mine. I am still quite wary of the idea, perhaps still in shock; perhaps still in disbelief.

I meet eyes with Arngeir. "Did you understand,  _Dovahkiin_?"

"Yes," is all I can say in return, far too steeped as I am, in this moment, in my ever-growing awareness of the cruel ironies so rampant in this world. I can already see the histories, as they will be falsely written:  _The new Ysmir, the Last Dragonborn, became the Emperor of Tamriel after an honorable duel to the death with the previous Emperor, Titus Mede II, in 4E201…_

I grow nauseous again. Will I be made to follow in the footsteps of Aestus, then? A Hero-Assassin? Gilded evil? I look down at my hands.  _Do you see him in me, Lydia?_

" _Dovahkiin_ ," Arngeir gently pulls me from my reverie. "If you will please follow us to the courtyard…"

I nod, still mute, and follow them. I had made my peace with my evils and my misdeeds a long time ago: even in the Synod, I had been known for my hotheaded cruelty. Up until recently, I was content with my fate. I was additionally content with the— _anonymous_ —black spot I will have left upon the annals of history: the assassin, the Listener, the King-killer… with all these titles, I was content. After my defection from my House, I was  _nemo_ , nobody, and I was happy to slowly go mad and damn myself to Oblivion in quiet, bloody peace.  _But now…_

Now the heavy doors which lead to the courtyard of High Hrothgar grind open before me, and all in response to someone's whispered utterance of  _Bex_. Now, again, I have a name: " _Mara mea_ ," says my brother with a smile as I step into the cold light. Now the red thread binds my hands. Now… I must save the entirety of this world. Her face surfaces in my mind's eye, before I can stop it, and my brother takes my hand when I cringe. " _Quiesce_ , Mara. You have the look of one who has seen a ghost."

I respond with a mere small shake of my head, and squeeze Leon's hand before letting it go.

He follows us to the courtyard center, all the while still speaking. He is unhindered, it would seem, by my brooding. I almost want to smile: he really has not changed at all. "That  _clamor_  was magnificent. I have read of the Greybeards, but my books do them little justice. Ungolim, here," he gestures to my Silencer, who follows us like a shadow, "was telling me of your time in this place, before start of the… what is  _clamor_ , in this language?"

"Noise; or more appropriately here, Shouting,  _Dominus_ ," says Ungolim, just as I inhale to reply.

" _Dominus!_ " Leon repeats. "Again you say  _Dominus_. I tell you it is not necessary. I am Leon, and not your master." He addresses me: "Why do you enforce such formality?"

As the walk to the center is, of course, short, we arrive and stop just as I answer: "I prefer it. But Ungolim, humor him, will you?"

"Yes,  _Domina_."

Arngeir addresses me just as Leon mocks my chosen title under his breath. "Our Grandmaster resides at the very top of this mountain. The way is treacherous, and normal conditions do not allow just anyone to reach the summit. For this, we will teach you a Shout with which you can clear the skies themselves, and grant yourself passage." He looks at me for a moment, and perhaps with a little fondness. "It will be our… last gift to you." He bows in the old way, and passes the Words, and their knowledge, to me. "May it grant you clarity from within and without."

 _Lok… Vah… Koor… Sky Spring Summer_. The clouds break, and the sun shines through. I inhale, and the air is light and clean. The forces of all the world rise, entwined as they are in their endless cyclic dance, and all together they free the sky from those heavy weights which sap the warmth from the earth below. I exhale. The sun rises, and life springs up. Again, again, again…

I open my eyes, dizzy with knowledge. "Such a command…" I nearly gasp. "So many of the world's forces are needed to enact this… No mortal should…"

"Yes," Arngeir replies with a small smile, "and now you see more fully why the Greybeards prefer their silence."

I bow my head a moment, and take the time needed to steady myself. I wonder, briefly, if the summer sky that I am about to create will extend far enough over Skyrim to bring some warmth to her skin. I wonder if the clothes she had were warm enough for the still-cold nights…

I grit my teeth, raise my head, and march in the direction of a crumbling set of stairs in the rear of the courtyard, beyond which stands an ancient gate leading to what looks like a furious winter storm. Leon, Ungolim, and all the Greybeards follow me to the gate, where I stop and gather my Thu'um, ground my stance, and Shout: " _LOK VAH KOOR!_ "

The tremor from it is incredible, and I watch the great wave of my Voice as it takes over the air around us, calming and warming it, and settling the wind. With this Shout alone, I control movement, light and heat. The storm disperses, and all around us the world is bright, clear and vibrant as a summer's day. Being the top of a mountain, it is still cold, but the Shout seems to have lessened it significantly.  _No mortal should have this kind of power…_  Perhaps that is what she would say.

" _Mirabile visu!_ " Leon exclaims, as we all begin our ascent. "Such a thing—I would not have thought that such ability were possible. It is not strange to me, now, that Cato wanted to find you again." He nods in understanding when I suddenly look at him in alarm, only having just now remembered the rest of his letter. "Yes, he flew into rage when the tales from the north came from our couriers. It was he who denied your access to our accounts, you know, when you fled." Here he gives me small look of apology. "Forgive me. I tried to stop this, but I was losing myself."

"I did ponder that. But…" I fold my arms over my chest and try to focus on somethingother than  _her_. "What now, I wonder, with the lifting of our curse."

"I think the Imperial City must be in an uproar. Many of our elders will try to take his title from him. Not only this, but," he sighs, sadly, "all of us who were mad should have come back with knowledge of the real Patriarch. There will be fighting and division, this is certain. And you and I are so far away in Skyrim, our mother is gone and our father is still hidden away, as before. No one remains to defend our estate from Cato's claim. And first still, there will come all the struggles for power between the true  _proles_ , children, of our House and their spouses. And this,  _Mara mea_ , is only my  _theoria_ … my…"

"Theory; speculation," I finish for him. "It will likely be worse, then," I scowl. "Would he send operatives to find us?"

"If when you say 'find us,' you mean 'kill us,' then no. No guilds of assassins exist in Cyrodiil other than the Dark Brotherhood… well,  _existed_ … And I do not think that they would be used against us." He says all this with a raised brow, emphasizing with his expression what his words had not said directly. "Though, if I think more about it, a group of mercenaries well-paid seems more to his taste. If nothing else, our deaths legally grant him our property."

"… And we would not be difficult to find…"

"No, not very difficult. If it will not be your newfound fame, then it will be our unique colors. Especially in this province." He turns suddenly, and pulls at Ungolim's sleeve to have him walk between us. My Silencer's expression in response to this is an amusing combination of  _startled_ and  _uncomfortable_. "You, friend, are like a shadow. Too quiet, and too  _austerus_ , somber. Are you not interested in our conversation? I speak this language for your benefit."

"Ah, yes…" he stops himself from saying the word  _Dominus_ , "I am. Forgive me, I understand much more than I can speak."

I believe we are finally drawing near to the summit. "Cato is our second cousin," Leon explains. "He is an awful  _scelus_ , a—"

"Brat, a wicked bastard," I interject.

"Yes this. He took the authority of his mother when she first showed signs of the madness. Intelligent, but too ambitious. And he teased Amara too much when we were small." He winks at me. I begin to notice that he looks a little winded, but he gives me no chance to order him to rest. "He proposed to marry her when we grew older, but she said  _no_  and ran away to the Synod. Ever since this time, he has a  _vindicta_ … a…"

"A vengeance, a  _vendetta_ , Leon, against me personally," I say with distaste.

"And now that he knows your name,  _Domina_ , and now that many of your clan will be fighting for property and power…" Ungolim says in a low voice as we come near to the crest of the summit, "To eliminate you would be economically wise for him."

"In addition to the welcome gratification of his ego, yes."

Ungolim seems to be about to say something further, but the view, once we all reach the very top of the mountain, halts all our conversation: the sky is still clear and blue from my Shout, but what surrounds us otherwise is a crisp and ancient expanse of snow and rock. At the far end, opposite us, stands a dragon wall, covered in writing. Upon laying eyes on it, I can hear it singing to me: a low chant, an urgency, something primal. I approach it, cautious but spellbound.

The writing is beautiful. I trace my fingers over each individual grapheme for the Word  _Yol_ , fire, muttering the sounds to myself.

Then I sense him: ancient, powerful. What surges through me feels like electricity in response to it, and I turn quite suddenly to better study the movement of the wind, startling my companions. " _Dragon_ ," I grind out through the reactionary rise of my own Thu'um.

But Arngeir hurries over to stay us and our weapons. "No, wait," he says as he gestures to the massive figure speeding toward us. "Our Grandmaster, Paarthurnax."

The Grandmaster of the Greybeards roars and begins his descent from the heavens just as my jaw drops.  _And what would you think of this, Lydia?_  He lands on top of the ancient wall with a great booming sound and the ground under us shakes, causing Leon to lose his balance, though Ungolim catches him before he falls to the ground.

The surge of violent energy that I feel in response to the dragon's proximity is very difficult to quell. I watch him warily, my posture defensive, quivering with it. " _Dovahkiin_ ," the Voice of Paarthurnax booms all around us, though his mouth does not move. " _Drem Yol Lok_ , I greet you. Welcome to my  _strunmah_ , my mountain."

" _Drem Yol Lok_ ," I reply through clenched teeth, trying not to kill my new conversation partner. "I bring the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, as has been… requested."

The dragon leans his head a little closer—much to my discomfort—and sniffs the air around me. "Hmm, yes, I sense the work of Kyne upon you. Old  _kogaan_ , blessings, long unseen in  _joor_. I think she saw fit to teach you the goodness of  _Vah_ , Spring, but this will be clearer to you in time."

I furrow my brow, confused. "That is cryptic, and has nothing to do with the Horn."

He nods—insofar as a dragon can nod. " _Krosis_ , I know this,  _Dovahkiin_. To tell is not my place. But the Horn, it will call the goddess again to bless you."

 _Again?_ "As  _Ysmir_ ," I say, my voice tight.

" _Geh_. As the new hero of your kind. For this, you must have  _jun_ , light."

"But what exactly am I  _saving_?" I nearly shout at the dragon, having finally grown frustrated with all this cryptic nonsense and prophetic flair surrounding me. "And who am I actually supposed to be  _killing_?"

If a dragon could look morose, this is, I suppose, how it would look. " _Alduin_ , the elder brother. He has returned, and with him, our kin. I would rejoice, but they make only  _kein_ , war. It must stop." Paarthurnax dips his head. "Your Thu'um, it must triumph over his."

 _Alduin_ … the name alone brings a powerful image to mind: a great black dragon, impossibly powerful, destroying all of Helgen with its rain of deadly fire…

I shiver. "How?"

A short pause. "First, the blessing. Then…" All the Greybeards surround me then, and Paarthurnax spreads his wings. "Then you must search. The  _joor_  pulled him from the sky in the beginning. How, you must learn. You must find a  _Kel_ , an Elder Scroll." Another pause. "The Horn,  _Dovahkiin_ , you must sound it."

Reeling, I pull the artifact from my satchel. Its white magic, warm to the touch and pulsating, seeps through my fingers as I raise it to my lips and blow. The sound it emits is like the Thu'um, and all at once the whole world around me grows brighter and the Greybeards begin a slow, rhythmic, and hauntingly beautiful chant. But I watch the sky, down from which comes a vision, an  _understanding_  of choice, cause, and effect. The lightness melds, ever so slowly and steadily, with my flesh.

I see Ungolim, troubled, his sturdy arm holding Leon, who vacillates between utter fascination and complete exhaustion, up on his feet. My vision shifts and fades throughout this process, flowing past a sea of names and faces. And Lydia, too, my Lydia: I see her. She is huddled around a fire with a troupe of Legion soldiers, quiet, brooding, drained of spirit. She has been running for days: this is obvious from the blood that stains the soles of her thin boots.

And then I see… fiery curls, but they are not mine. A smiling face, small, round…  _Vah_ , I hear myself say.  _I must learn… understand…_

The lightness fuses with me completely, and all the world snaps back into place. Or… it should, but my eyes feel new. My body thrums, and I feel too much, and all at once: a sense of purpose, and so much sorrow. I look down at my hands and see that my skin glows with this curious touch of divinity, although that, too, fades after a few moments.

The chanting fades, but my new power does not. I know not how to describe its nature in depth, but I know for certain that I have been irreversibly altered… somehow.

All in unison, the Greybeard bow to me. "Hail,  _Dovahkiin_! Hail,  _Ysmir_!"

And Paarthurnax merely looks on, silent.

 

* * *

 

_4 Rain's Hand, 4E202_

 

_She knows secrets that I have never told to anyone else: secrets of my flesh, secrets of my spirit._

_She touches me in ways that no one has ever touched me, and it is not just my body. No one has ever touched my mind as she does, this simple, straightforward, and clever woman. Her enraptured attention makes me forget myself, and it is but a small effort on her part to make me pliant and emotional, and to make me long for her._

_Her love is one of ardent reciprocation, of mutual fascination, and of communication in the naked embrace. Hers is a love of action, of_ showing.

 _She shows me this, physically. In our bed, in our space and privacy, she holds tightly to me as I push inside her and savor every little sound she makes—so completely unlike her normal voice—and as I touch her where she likes to be touched. She shows me her ways, her affection and…_ trust _… with her vulnerability. She is beautiful, more beautiful than any other soul in this world, and she is hot and desirous and_ mine _, gladly given and writhing and calling my name._

_And I love this, her passionate response to my touch. I love the knowledge that I bring her to this state when she allows me to enter her body: this thrusting, glistening, grasping, glorious state. I love the way she shows me her pleasure with the sounds she makes, her lips pressed against my ear, and with her short nails as they dig into the flesh of my shoulders._

_When she gets close, my name is a prayer on her lips. I love how she frames it on her Nordic tongue, and how she holds tight to me and presses my face to her neck as her head throws back and… oh, I feel it: the hot and slippery pulsating crest of her pleasure, and her back bows with its intensity as I kiss the skin of her neck and shoulders…_

My eyes open just a little, and for the briefest of moments, the warmth of her touch suffuses me still and entices me with its sensual languor.

Then I wake fully, and remember.

The stone walls which surround me are familiar and painful to recognize. It had been so difficult, on the night previous, to fall asleep here… alone, riddled with memories and fresh anguish, even after the exhaustion brought on by all the events of yesterday. I am certain—quite certain—that I must leave this place today.

A terrible wave of nausea comes over me the instant I rise to my feet. It is the same which has plagued me for days now, and it causes me to shudder and momentarily lose balance, so that I must fall back to the bed, stare at the ceiling, and fight it. I press a hand to my forehead: it is not a fever, and aside from my spiritual fatigue, I do not feel the weakness of the body that often accompanies illness.

I wonder if, perhaps, this is some symptom of my mind's re-learning of how to govern itself.

I wait for it to pass, and then rise again. I wash and dress myself and make for the communal dining area, where I find Leon, Ungolim, Arngeir, and a few other Greybeards already seated around the great stone table. Though several of them look up to acknowledge me when I enter the room, my brother remains undistracted from his animated line of questioning: "But you say that no one knows who built this place?"

"The original portion of it, no," replies Arngeir. "It was just a small, open chapel when Paarthurnax and the first Tongues settled here. I speculate the it was the Ehlnofey, as the structure was old even in the Merethic Era, but no one can be certain. No, much of this place was built over a long period of time—and this was even before Jurgen Windcaller founded the order of the Greybeards. We have scattered writings in the Dragon Tongue which tell of our history, though not enough to satisfy modern scholarship."

I sit quietly next to Ungolim, who nods to me in greeting, and begin my morning repast. "So this Tongue  _can_  simply describe events?" Leon continues. "It does not only serve as a weapon of battle?"

"Oh yes, of course," comes the amused answer. "To use the language as a Thu'um, a Shout, requires a great deal more introspection. It goes beyond simply learning a language: instead it is a… hmm…" The old Greybeard touches his chin in thought. "I know it as a conduit, of sorts, though which I manipulate what  _is_."

"Now we speak of the threads of reality," Leon replies after a sip of his drink. "Such a strange world we live in, where some arts go beyond even magic. Only the philosopher thinks further, or all is left to the gods. We can have no knowledge  _prima facie_ , at first sight."

Arngeir looks to me. "Yes… and much yet remains to be learned." He gestures, and all the other Greybeards rise and leave the room, leaving only the four of us. "I think, now, we should discuss your next course of action,  _Dovahkiin_. It pains me, but I must agree with Paarthurnax. Alduin must be stopped, or all of us will perish either in a second Dragon War, or something worse."

"Well…" I wrap my hands about my cup. "According to Paarthurnax, I need to find an Elder Scroll. For what purpose, I can not say. Nor, in all truth, can I say that what your Grandmaster proposes is even…  _feasible_. I am not a Moth Priest, nor am I omniscient. How in the world would I know where to look?"

" _Where_ , I don't know," replies Arngeir. "But I do know what for. There is a Time-Wound on the summit of the Throat of the World: it is the place where a small group of Tongues used an Elder Scroll to send Alduin forward in time. This created a disturbance, and it's still there. I imagine if you were to find an Elder Scroll and read it in that same spot, you would be able to hear the Shout that those Tongues used to pull Alduin from the sky."

"And none of the Greybeards know it?"

"No," says Arngeir with a small shake of his head. "Our teacher is a dragon, and this Shout is incomprehensible to dragons. That's why it's so effective. There is no way that he could have passed it to the Greybeards."

I take a long breath. "I have little choice, then." I close my eyes, but then my mind's eye only fills the darkness with shimmering images, unclear like the memory of some past dream. "I must… somehow… find an Elder Scroll." What wells up is a near-overwhelming sensation of longing, and all too quickly, I know to which place I will first travel.

 _Sanctuary_ …

 

* * *

 

_8 Rain's Hand, 4E202_

 

Fafnir awaits us at the Vilemyr Inn, and stands in greeting when my companions and I push our weary bodies through the main door. Though the long journey from the Throat of the World had been as miserable as ever, it had been worth the relief of putting distance between myself and all my memories back in High Hrothgar.

We all of us pull up chairs beside the fire, drop our packs and heavy coats, and indulge in a welcome respite. Fafnir, likely unsure as to how he should address me in my brother's presence, leans toward me and says, lowly: "I bear missives, Ma'am."

"Give them," I reply in an equally hushed tone, and he pulls a small number of letters from his pack and lays them in my hand. Still chronically nauseous, my head aching, I glance down at my mail only briefly, and with a speedy decision that I will look at it later. "Wait in Ivarstead until I provide further instruction," I say dismissively, and he nods.

"Yes, Ma'am." He rises after making a quick assessment of my companions, though of course says nothing about it, and retreats to the bar. He sits in the seat that Lydia had sat in, all that time ago…

I pinch the skin between my eyes, my mood sour and my spirits low. Too many places are touched with memories of her, and it plagues me. I am driven to think and ponder, up to and beyond the threshold of pain and self-loathing, and to wonder where she is in this moment… if she has eaten anything today…

The image of her poor dining etiquette surfaces, and I want to smile just as much as I want to scream.

Images like this continue to plague me even as I rent my room, lay down, and attempt to sleep. These guilty thoughts prove a worthy contender against even my powerful exhaustion, so that it takes nearly an hour before I finally begin to feel restful.

_I dream again, and it is so odd to know this. I know that this is a dream even as I participate in it, though this does very little to stop me or to pull me from it._

_My whole spirit pulsates, blanketed in white and heavy with burden. I think I should be afraid, but instead what bubbles up is such an intense feeling of love and hope that I can do nothing else but submit myself to it._ Vah. _It is a heartbeat, and it is propelled by such an incredible combination of purity and pain that it burns like some mythical fire of absolution._

_I would smile, should it burn me away completely. I could do nothing else._

I shoot up and out of bed, hot and sweaty. I only just barely make it to the window before I lean out and heave up some vile fluid, as my stomach is otherwise empty. This happens again, and then again, only without any sort of substance upon the third time, as there is now truly nothing more to expel. I fall back and onto the floor, covered in cold sweat, my hands shaking.

I shiver and wipe the small gathering of tears from my eyes. A foul taste yet permeates my mouth, such that I must rise again and spit out the window. I almost want to laugh at myself: look at me, spitting like an urchin.

I raise a hand to my forehead, and then to my neck. My skin in cold and clammy, but I am certain that it is not some mere illness. I shiver again, and wonder if my spiritual suffering has made some sort of physical effect upon my body. Still uneasy from my dream, and now disturbed by this new thought, I shakily dress myself and all but stumble into the main room of the inn just as the morning sun comes into full force over the horizon.

The room is quiet and empty but for Fafnir, who slumbers lightly in a chair in a dark corner. It is a light enough sleep that my uncharacteristically-noisy entry startles him to his feet, and after a brief pause, he approaches me with obvious concern. "Listener…" he says lowly, "you look…"

"I know," I rasp, my tongue thick. I go to the communal washing room and rinse my mouth with water from the cistern there. He follows me, not knowing what else he should do. "I have a new order." I wipe my lips and bid him to follow me back to the main room, where I fill a water kettle and heat it with a flame from my hand. "One which is important to me personally, and should thus be handled with  _discreet_ care. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Listener." He bows his head.

My title, spoken aloud like this, brings her face inevitably to mind.  _As if it hadn't been there already…_  I push it down. "Lydia of Whiterun," I say, her name nearly too heavy for my lips, "no longer travels with me." I take a breath. "Recent intelligence located her in the company of a troupe of Legion soldiers. I want her movements tracked, her actions documented, and reported to me."

The water boils, and I mechanically go about fixing myself a cup of tea, though my shaking hands make this more difficult. Gently, apologetically, Fafnir eases the cup and kettle from my grasp. "Forgive me, Listener," he says as he does the work for me. "This is probably out of line, so I will accept a lashing if you think it right. But… Sister, I can see you're troubled."

He places my drink before me and stills, awaiting my wrath. I surprise us both with my simple answer of: "I am." I watch the tendrils of steam which rise from the cup, bereft of any desire to whip him. It is bad form, I know, and could engender dissension in the lower ranks should they judge their leader to be weak… but…

His concern is genuine, and I find it comforting to be reminded that the Dark Brotherhood is, for the most part, not a family unit in title alone. Among our numbers, there is real kinship. "I won't tell," he says, as if reading my thoughts. I nod. "And I'll send your orders with the new contract list. Listener, is she…" he searches my eyes, briefly, "to be made a mark?"

" _No_ ," I reply too quickly, throbbing with revulsion at the idea. "My original order stands: no harm, no contact. Watch her and report. Nothing more." I sip my tea, almost pleased with how it scalds my tongue and throat, and bid him to bring me the letters I had left sitting on the table in my room. He delivers them to me and then stands in silence as I read.

The letter from Nazir reports that Cicero has somehow escaped, and that no one has been able to track him down. I sneer at the news. Wherever he might be hiding, I conclude, he should stay there if he wants to remain alive. I read on. Footwork has been spotty, though we have stayed afloat thanks to the lists I have sent whenever possible. The huge pile of gold from Ustengrav had been a massive help. He ends the letter with a series of logistics for upcoming contracts and a wish for my continued good health.

Babette's letter, however, reports some much stranger events. It is short, but somewhat alarming nonetheless:

 

_Listener,_

_I'm reporting this mostly out of concern, as I don't yet see any reason to take direct action. In my recent nighttime travels, there have been two instances in which I observed a small band of warriors aggressively questioning travelers and townsfolk on the whereabouts of the Dragonborn._

_Normally this wouldn't faze me very much, considering you've got half of Skyrim hanging off your cloak these days, but these particular men speak with the accent of the Imperial City. Not only this, but they carry papers marked with the same crest that you have on that ring you were never very good at hiding. I saw it when they had the nerve to question me, and I should tell you they were lucky that I was already full._

_If this does indeed prove to be a problem, then I hope this letter reaches you in time. And I hope you won't mind that I'll probably kill them if they try to harass me again._

_Looking forward to seeing you again,_

_Babette_

 

I take another sip, and consider this new information. Indeed it seems that Leon predicted correctly: House Aestus has come to reclaim some of its lost property. The creak of rusty hinges raises my attention to the adjacent hall, where the man himself, almost as if in response to my having thought of him, makes a mediocre attempt to creep quietly out of the room.

I stare confusedly at the odd scene until I see him slip into another room further down the hall, though not before stumbling on a raised floorboard still invisible under the morning gloom. His hand is raised to his forehead and his posture is slumped as if he were… hungover? The realization finally dawns on me as I move my gaze back to the door of the room he had just left, and I almost fall from my chair. " _Really_ , Leon?" I grumble in the direction of his now-closed door. " _Now_?"

 

* * *

 

_10 Rain's Hand, 4E202_

 

Its initial attack was fast, but I was faster.

The membrane of my challenger's wings is riddled through with holes from magical ice and Ungolim's black arrows. The dragon is grounded, which is good, but the situation is still far from ideal: only Lydia had even been willing to attack a dragon from atop its back, and without her, the process is slow. Dangerously slow.

The three of us keep quick on our feet, lest we otherwise be bitten in half. Without Lydia to tear up its hide, the dragon has license to swipe and bite at us so that it is difficult to stop and charge a spell. I can only maintain my distance and Shout my challenger into submission, which thrills me as much as it exhausts me. " _YOL TOOR SHUL!_ " The dragon roars as my fiery Voice boils the skin under its scales.

This gives Leon just enough time to release a powerful shock spell to destroy the dragon's eyes, and for Ungolim to perforate the naked skin just under the creature's jaw. A river of blood pours from it and soaks the grass, and some part of me cries out in sympathy for its pain just as much as it demands my victory. I rear my head back, and with my superior Thu'um, I mark the dragon for death.

A river of memories floods my consciousness as I consume the dragon's soul: countless centuries of hunting, of commanding the sky. No gift could ever be greater than the freedom of flight, and for a few moments I cannot help but to mourn the wings that I never had.

"By Akatosh," Leon says in our language, his voice full of wonder, "you took its very soul. You really can consume them. Tell me," he takes my hand, turning it this way and that, and then searches my eyes, "what are you feeling right now?"

"The wind on my wings," I rasp though a voice too deep and draconic, and it startles him a little.  _I think I would fly to her, and try to offer her the sky._  "I miss it."

"The dragons are attacking with greater frequency,  _Domina_ ," Ungolim says as he moves about the massive skeleton and salvages some of his arrows. "I wonder if they're growing bolder."

"Of course they are." In the dragon's memories, I also see Alduin as he slowly, but steadily, builds his ancient army. I approach the skeleton and grasp one of its huge, heavy ribs, composed of a material thicker and harder than most metals. Filled with an unnatural strength, both from the blessing of Kyne and the fresh soul, I break the rib clean from its base and hold it aloft. "And I am changing, too."

 

* * *

 

_Author's Note:_

 

_1\. For a while I was actually pretty ambivalent on how I wanted to write this chapter. Plenty of action and intrigue and stuff still needed to be covered, but I didn't want to neglect all the bullshit that had just gone down in the last chapter, nor did I want Amara to spend the whole chapter as a weepy one-woman pity party. Sooo I opted for chronic misery alleviated by lots of movement, and I hope that got the balance right. I'd appreciate any commentary you guys might have on that._

_2\. The absolute_ last _thing that I want is for Amara to become any kind of Mary Sue character, so believe me when I say that the blessing she receives in this chapter has by no means made her invincible. Because yeah, that would be ridiculous._

_3\. The thought occurred to me, after writing this chapter, that Amara is basically using her network of highly-trained, elite assassins to satisfy her urge to stalk someone. Now of course we understand that in context, and of course we're already aware of the fact that she's… still not the most reasonable person in Skyrim. But still. I thought it was kind of funny. Well, morbidly funny, anyway. xD_


	13. First Lessons

**Chapter 13: First Lessons**

 

_13 Rain's Hand, 4E202_

 

Dawnstar. I want to say that I am relieved to be here again, but in truth, some part of me remains inexplicably uneasy. In the simplest terms, I feel… strange.

It is a cold morning, and the wind off the sea is particularly merciless today. Or perhaps it is that my skin is unusually tender; I cannot be certain. What I know for a certainty is that Leon shows none of these same symptoms: indeed, all the exercise of the past weeks has served only to enhance his return to full strength. Having gently declined to further discuss the family curse with me—and from this, of course, to shed some light on the source of the bodily symptoms I have not yet alerted him to—he chooses instead to whistle some artless tune from atop his horse, his head high and his hood thrown back, in what is obviously a blatant defiance against all that has befallen us as of late.

He shows no symptoms of weakness or nausea, and this troubles me. This means that something else is wrong…  _But what could it possibly be?_  I turn the matter over and over again in my mind, but with very little success.

We three dismount our horses by the small stables next to my house and leave them there to be tended by a stable boy: a son of one of our middle-ranked members, if I recall correctly. I make it as far as the main hall, however, before a fur-covered battering ram nearly pummels me to the floor while simultaneously trying to shove his wet nose under my palm. "Calm yourself, Duran!" I hold his head and attempt to curb some of his energy.

Though of course it fails. "A dog!" Leon darts out from behind me just as Duran jumps on him in an overexcited rush, and the two catch each other in some sort of lively, laughing, barking jumble. "I thought you hated dogs?"

"He was supposed to be a guard dog," I grumble. A memory surfaces, though I push it down before it can fully form. I do not wish to see it, nor to think about it.

"Duran," Ungolim says from beside me, having eased his and my bags to the floor. Immediately, the dog ceases his little struggle with my brother, fixes his eyes on Ungolim, and sits. At this, I can only admit a sort of frustration:  _The dog only ever listens to him…_ "Out," he continues while he reopens the front door. "Guard."

My dog barks twice and then scurries outside to do my Silencer's bidding. The door clicks shut once again. "Just like a Bosmer," Leon quips, as he rises to his feet, "so close to all the  _animalia_."

Ungolim pulls my bag back over his shoulder with a small smirk. "Indeed."

"Ma'am." The voice of Pheletes pulls my attention from a building—and rather mysterious—silent contest between the two other men in the room. He makes a small, but polite, bow. "Welcome home. Gulitte, Falcar, and I have been tending it, other obligations allowing."

"You may address me as you know me here, Brother," I say as I move my weary body to the main room and take a seat. I gesture back to Leon. "He is not counted among our Brotherhood, but he is family to me nonetheless. A brother of my blood. Do treat him kindly."

"Yes, Listener." He eyes Leon, who follows me into the main room after a brief moment and sits in a nearby chair with nary a word, while Ungolim makes his silent way to the second floor.

"Is there any correspondence?" I say as I try not to think of my real question:  _Is there any news of Lydia?_

"No, Listener," he replies softly, and just before I watch the entirety of his complexion erupt into a furious blush. A brief glance to the side, and I can see that my brother is gazing up at him through hooded eyes.

I grit my teeth. " _Leon_ ," I warn him, "I swear I will kill you myself."

He just laughs and rises from his seat to kiss my cheek. "Coming from you,  _Mara mea_ , I cannot doubt it." I grab him by his collar before he can move further away and give him a pointed stare. "Yes, yes, the message is clear." Still I do not relent, and he makes a face. "What else troubles you?"

"I am exhausted and you are torturing my assassins." I release Leon's collar and gesture to Pheletes that he is dismissed. "Actually…" I muse aloud, in our language, just as my brother returns to his seat, "since when have you been so consistently interested in other men? Last that I remember…"

"Yes, after Sophia." He shakes his head sadly at the thought of his late wife. "The guilt crushes my spirit, no matter that I try to ease it. No matter how much we have talked about it—"

"But you must not blame yourself—" I attempt.

"Of course I must." He stares at his open palms. "It was with these hands. I think of this constantly, you know. I am so glad to be free of the curse—truly, so glad—but I remember, too, all that I did. I remember her screams, and my laughter. I had little clue as to what was really happening. Indeed I thought it a game. I thought I was… winning the game." He takes a long breath, and I wait. "Every woman since… looks like her, somehow."

I know that look on his face: it is the very same one which too often occupies my own. With a huff and an expenditure of my magic, I telekinetically pull his chair closer to mine so that I might rest my hand on his arm. He gives me a wry smile, despite himself. "But now it is time to move on. It is done, and there is little, if anything, to salvage."

"Perhaps for me. But for you…" He rests his other hand atop mine. "Be calm. Do not look at me with such doubt." He pauses, briefly. "I do mean this honestly: I think, for you, there is still room for redemption. It is small, but…" His expression, in this moment, is so earnest. "If you do your duty to the gods… I just… I have a feeling."

My heart wrenches at the thought,  _the very idea_. "I could not dare to think such a thing," I say quietly.

 

* * *

 

The black door of my Sanctuary has always emitted that same haunting, otherworldly sound. For the first time in my life, I fail to find the sound comforting. Much the opposite, in fact: as Ungolim and I silently traverse the dark entrance hall, I must give my best effort to still my quivering fingers, and to ignore my burgeoning desire for sunlight.

Nazir awaits us before The Night Mother's shrine, and his greeting is as heartfelt as it is weary. "Listener." He takes my hands into his. "I can't even begin to say how happy I am to see you."

"Hello, Brother," I reply. I must work to keep my voice calm and even. "Have you received my latest list?"

"Yes." He makes a quick glance in the direction of The Night Mother. "Most of the contracts are already underway, even. Babette's in Solitude right now, arranging a few more. She left a note for you, though." He pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and hands it over. "It's probably about promoting Gulitte. She's been nothing but impressive, especially after Windhelm."

I skim over the brief message. "It is. Babette wants to promote her to Speaker. I will allow it, so long as you agree and see to it that Gulitte is properly trained."

"Of course." He pauses while a slight concern colors his features. "Listener… don't take offense, but you don't look so well. Do you want to sit down?"

"No… no, ah…" I fumble. What can I possibly say to him when I can not explain the matter even to myself? "There is a great deal that has occurred recently."

"I know." He guides us both to a nearby table and set of chairs, despite my refusal. Ungolim continues to observe us, his features passive and his presence all but ghost-like, as he stands in the shadows near to the wall. "Our Brothers and Sisters have seen you and your traveling party moving all over Skyrim. And we've heard plenty of tales on the wind about your fights with dragons and all those goings-on with the Greybeards. And we've… ah, received your orders to watch your housecarl." He drums his fingers against the tabletop, obviously debating something with himself. When he finally speaks, it is with caution. "Listener, we need to kill her if she poses a threat. You know we do."

I fight the welling sickness. "I forbid it. I will not negotiate this."

"Your emotions guide your decision." It is not a question, although he makes his comment with obvious care. "If she were anyone else—"

"But she is not."

"At least let us take her prisoner, then." He leans a little toward me, his expression dark. "She knows too much. I won't ask how she found out, but I'm positive that's why she's no longer traveling with you. Consider it, Sister. You have to. They'll put a price on your head if she talks, and we can't survive without you. You're risking your whole Family by letting her go."

The silence that follows his little speech is all but deafening. My shaking hands tighten into shaking fists underneath the table. Of course I have considered this. I have considered it many, many times. Lydia can indeed expose me and bring about an effective end to the Dark Brotherhood, should her revelation lead to my capture or execution. But… my death also means the death of the Dragonborn, and although she had indeed wished, in anger, for my demise, some part of me knows that the knowledge would have stayed her hand in the end. It is in Lydia's nature to choose personal sacrifice for the benefit of the whole; I know this as unquestioningly as I could differentiate day from night.

"Lydia worships Talos," I respond, quietly, after a long pause. "She worships Talos in spite of the White-Gold Concordat and all the consequences that it decrees. And yet, she actively supports the Legion over the Stormcloaks. She faces substantial personal danger for this, but to her it is of little concern, as she makes her choices in the name of the greater good." I take a breath. "Lydia knows the identity of the Listener. In anger, she made a threat against my life. But she knows, perhaps better than most, what my death would mean for the continued existence of all mortal races. She has had ample time to expose me already, and yet she has not."

Another long pause follows my last word and stretches between us until Nazir breaks it with a small sigh. "I understand what you're implying, but I still haven't changed my mind. You're basing your logic on love. While that's your business most of the time, you make it everyone's concern when you risk us like this."

I try to swallow the tightness that builds in my throat in reaction to that word.  _Love_. My blood pulsates when the word rings between my ears. It is the one word that I have tried to avoid, even when she and I were at our best. "Just have her watched," I say as I rise, no longer able to look at him, and slowly approach The Night Mother. "I am already paying for it from my personal funds. Beyond this, I urge you not to concern yourself or the rest of the Family."

He does not answer, though I know that he remains where he is seated so that he might watch me.

I bow before The Night Mother. "I call you, Mother. Guide me, so that I might guide your Black Hand."

A few long moments pass before the body begins to glow, and I feel The Night Mother's presence touch my mind.  _Listener…_  Her voice sends a shiver down my spine.  _You left at the behest of Sithis, and you have returned to spit in his face._

"M-Mother?" Her words cut me somewhere deep, even if I cannot comprehend them fully. My mind races. "I… intend no such thing…"

_There is a new fire in your spirit, Listener, and it pains my eyes. Should it consume much more of you, I will no longer be able to tolerate communion between us. Complete your task and return to me as you were._  Her spirit pauses, even as I tremble, and then continues:  _Many have prayed to their Mother. I will pass the knowledge, and then you will leave this place._

And at this, I can do little else but close my eyes, swallow bitterly, and listen.

 

* * *

 

_14 Rain's Hand, 4E202_

 

_There are nights when she is pliant and loving, sweet and warm, and is gentle and patient with her touch… Then there are nights when she is wild and hungry and merciless, and I can all but hold on as she rides me into oblivion._

_Tonight, she is wild. Filled with energy and desire, she presses me into the bed with her whole body, flesh to flesh, and I willingly offer up all that I have to satisfy her hunger. She possesses me, all of me, with each press of her hot mouth on to my skin, with every pull of my hair, with every thrust of her fingers that leaves me calling to her in slick and mounting pleasure. Her hips roll against my thigh, which I have pressed hard between them. Against my ear she makes a long, low sound of approval. "Trying to… take control…?" She smiles against my mouth before she kisses it._

_"_ _Mm…_ no _, darling." I cry out and grasp at the sheets above my head when she moves for leverage and thrusts deep, curling her fingers. "Of course no—_ ah _! Oh…" She does it again, and I am effectively silenced._

_"_ _Shhh," she orders from above. "You're mine right now."_

_"_ _Take me, then." I urge her, breathless and filled with her. "Take me, ta—ah—" She moves harder, deeper, faster… Her skin glides over mine, slick with sweat. I peak once, and then once more, before she finally pulls her fingers from me and grinds fully against my thigh, as I have invited her to do. "Yes, darling," I breathe as I watch her expression change._

_I love to watch her do this with such complete abandon. She grinds harder, panting, jerking with its intensity, and makes such beautifully arousing sounds from deep in her throat. But the most arousing of all is my name: "Ah… Mara…" she breathes, just as she stiffens with pleasure…_

Frenzied barking rips me from an already restless sleep just before Ungolim crashes through my bedroom door, his blades drawn. His eyes dart wildly about the room before they land on me. "Dog smells something." His voice is an urgent whisper. He pulls a robe from my wardrobe and helps me into it. "Stay by me."

I tie the sash and will myself into wakefulness. "What exactly?" I say as I move from my room and toward the stairs, which I descend despite his protest. Duran paces wildly about the main room, barking and whimpering.

"Something bad." My Silencer is tense. "He knows it. He says so."

"In the house?" I gather magic into my palms.

"I don't—" He all but leaps on top of me when a loud crash resounds from the floor above, followed after a beat by a loud curse in  _Latine_. Then he just sighs. "I don't know. He doesn't think so."

"If it is a dragon…" I say, just as Leon stumbles, half-dressed, down the stairs.

"Not a dragon." Ungolim holds my arm as if to stop me from going out the door. "Youd've known first."

"True." Duran's barking and pacing intensify. "Well, then?" My question is punctuated by a shrill scream, which bursts from the stables and then is followed by a loud crash. "Shadowmere!" I cry and rush toward the front door, though Ungolim makes it there first, blocking my exit.

"No,  _Domina_. No." His eyes are wide and wild. Outside I can hear the cracking, crashing, bursting beginnings of some kind of chaos. The cacophony vibrates through the walls.

I hold up my hand, which sparks with deadly magic. "You would dare?"

He swallows. There is another crash and a loud  _thump_ , reminiscent of a large body hitting the ground. "I would," he says, though his voice tremors a little. "For your life. Yes."

"My life?" I attempt to push him, though he does not budge. "I battle with dragons, Ungolim!"

" _Domina_ …" He pleads. Our silent contest is defied only by Duran's mad barking.

A long, loud, and otherworldly howl pierces through our little knot of turmoil, resounding from just beyond the walls of my house. It reduces Duran to terrified whimpers, and both Ungolim and I are stilled.  _Wolves…?_

Leon approaches us, then, and pulls me gently toward him. "I can smell it now. It is close enough." His voice is low, wary. "Not Aetherius, but still an otherworld. I know it."

I inhale, but detect nothing. "My senses were never so keen as yours." The creature crashes against the western wall of my house and causes the whole structure to shake. Duran tenses, barking again, and readies himself for a fight. "Which otherworld?" I ask him through clenched teeth, and cast magical armor over my body while my brother does the same.

It howls again, though it seems to come from further away. The sound is too strange and too powerful to come from any natural wolf… "The Hunting Grounds," he replies, nearly in a whisper. "A werewolf."

Silence follows his words and stretches long afterward, even though we remain tense and guarded. A werewolf. While I had expected to encounter the occasional wolf or bear while living away from Dawnstar proper, I had certainly never expected to encounter a _werewolf_ , of all things…

We wait in a strained silence, then, for two more hours.

"Unbelievable," I grumble, finally grown too impatient. Even Duran has relaxed. "I have waited long enough. The thing is probably gone, and my horse is probably dead." I rise and fix a glare at Ungolim, who tries to suppress a wince. "I would tie you to a post and whip you had that been a normal wolf. Follow me, and consider yourself fortunate."

Leon follows me as well, and in the gray light of the rising sun, we three survey the damage. The bodies of both Leon's and Ungolim's horses lie heaped in shallow pools of their own blood, but I do not see any trace of Shadowmere. My heart swells with hope at this: perhaps he found some means to flee.

"The poor thing," Leon says sadly to his horse's body as he approaches it. " _Edepol!_  She is torn to ribbons. Yours as well?" He says to Ungolim, who stands near his own horse and nods once in reply. "But I am certain the creature is gone. A wild passerby, perhaps?"

I make no reply. As I approach, I can see that the stables are reduced to a heap of rubble, and the wood is intermittently marked by blood spatter and gouging from massive claws. The earth is similarly marked with deep gashes and pawprints as large as my head, all scattered randomly about the property. I have seen werewolves before, but this one must be particularly formidable to have caused this much destruction: this entire property had been built to be secure, after all, and much effort had gone into the strength and sturdiness of its construction.

Duran trots past me to sniff at the debris. "I suppose you were not a complete waste, then," I mutter to him, as Leon calls out that he will go inspect the western wall. Other than for a tangled mess of hoofprints that marr the ground, I can see little trace of where Shadowmere must have run off to. I look off into the distance and scowl, mystified and thoroughly annoyed.

Leon shouts from the other side of the house just as Duran comes back from the other side of the rubble to drop something at my feet: a severed arm, armored in black and red. The shock freezes me in place for only a moment before Ungolim is there to break me of it. And then we are running.

Blood spatters the western wall where a great, claw-marked dent is cracked into the siding. Leon leans over the one-armed, Brotherhood-armor-clad body slumped just underneath it. "Dead," he says when we stop just next to him. "The wolf ripped his chest open and took his heart."

The boy's face is frozen in shock and pain. "He must have been sleeping in the stables." I wrap my arms about myself, already wondering how I would break the news to his parents. "Why did he not ask to sleep inside?"

"Likely for fear of troubling you,  _Domina_." Gently, Ungolim crouches and picks up the body, and lays it out on the other side of the house. We follow him. "The cart was destroyed along with the stables," he continues, his voice low. "I will run to Dawnstar for a replacement. Should I… bring his parents?"

I look between the body and my Silencer. "I… suppose, yes," I say. "At the very least, they must be told."

He sprints off, then, with nary a word.

 

* * *

 

_17 Rain's Hand, 4E202_

 

We arrive in Winterhold nearly two days later than I had initially planned.

First there was the matter of the boy's funeral, in which his parents, stricken with fear and near to hysterics, begged me to be the one to light the pyre. I did, though it was much to my distaste: despite my line of work, I must admit that I abhor funerals.

Second there was the problem of our horses. I mutter quiet curses at the horse now trotting under me, and think of how Shadowmere would never have been so graceless. Ungolim had found him, torn to shreds, halfway to Dawnstar. In other words, what had passed through my property on that night was a werewolf powerful enough to outpace and dismember even a demon horse. I grit my teeth. The next person I suspect to be a werewolf will be kept alive only long enough to see their skin made into my new fur cloak.

We leave our horses in the town stables and make our way to the inn, where we stop for a hot meal and some rest, and where I may sit by the fire and brood in peace. Shadowmere had been a gift from Astrid. Aside from my Blade of Woe, he was all that I had left of her. I pull the blade, still encased in its beautifully ornate sheath, from my satchel and turn it over and over in my hands. My feelings for her are complex, of course, given all that happened between us before her death… but still, I cannot deny the impact that her memory has made upon my life.

Someone near to me whistles. "Who'd you have to kill to get  _that_?" The man's voice is gravelly, and when I turn to look, I can see that he himself is thin and shifty-looking. Already I can tell that he is a thief: his hungry eyes are locked on my blade even while he speaks. "That is one remarkably beautiful weapon."

I grasp my blade about the handle and stand to face him, my voice and demeanor dangerous. My glare stops him fast. "Not for sale."

"You're sure?" He tries to come closer, but his path is quickly blocked by Ungolim. "Alright… alright." He raises his hands a little in deference and backs away. "A shame, though. I can pay handsomely for such a fine piece. Tell you what: the name's Enthir. If you ever change your mind and want to sell, you can usually find me up at the College."

"The College?" I say without thinking, just as the man turns his back. "You are a student?"

"Yes," he says, slowly turning back on his heel. "And if you aren't, then good luck getting in. You'll be burnt to cinders before you even make it to the front gates. That is… of course… unless I could help…" His hungry gaze trains, once again, on my Blade of Woe.

"You speak with one of the deadliest masters of fire magic in the Empire, young man," Leon says from his chair while he holds a mug of hot, spiced wine near to his lips. "Have respect."

"A Destruction master?" He studies me once again, and quizzically. "Wait…" A revelation dawns on his features. "That red hair… it's just like the tales! You must be the Dragonborn!"

All activity in the inn stops as people opt to silently gape at me. I look about myself, and then at Enthir, and grow increasingly uncomfortable.  _This is the part where Lydia would cause a scene_ … The thought rises before I can stop it. "Yes," I mutter, before I reclaim my seat and my drink. "And I will not give you my blade. If you have no helpful information, then you may go in peace." In the past, I think, I would have shouted or made threats. Now I sit here quietly and wonder if Lydia would look approvingly upon my novel form of dismissal.

"I, uh…" The thief-mage places his hands in the pockets of his robes. "I mean, well, I hear they're hiring new faculty. And there are always places here and there for new students. So…" He pauses again, seemingly puzzled by the anticlimax of our conversation. "I hope it works out for you." He backs away from us and leaves the inn.

"New faculty?" Leon strokes his short beard in thought. "I would like to apply, I think… Oh why that face,  _Mara mea_?" He says when I raise a brow at him. "I will need to occupy myself in some way when we are finished meddling in the affairs of the gods."

"You do not think you will return to Cyrodiil?" I say as I rise and gather my belongings.

"To the ruins of our House? I think not. No, I think I would like to cast my lot with you, here. Maybe…" He tips back his mug and drains it of any remaining wine. "Maybe we can build a new House." The look he fixes me with, now, is intense and sincere. "A clean one."

The image is indeed a powerful one: a whole new generation of our flame-haired scions, free to pursue their dreams with no fear of an inevitable fall to madness. To them the curse will be a story, a half-forgotten nightmare. "I fear such aspirations are beyond me," I say with a small shake of my head as I fasten my cloak. "These are things I have never really, ah… contemplated."

He readies himself as well, and we are back outside and walking in short order, Ungolim trailing behind us. "This has filled most of my contemplations," Leon says after a brief pause. "Yes, since we were freed. I have thought much on it. You know how I have always wanted to be a father."

"I know," I reply, though I refrain from mentioning Sophia, even if I know that we are both thinking of it. True, it was an arranged marriage, but he had grown incredibly fond of her over time. They were devastated when they learned that she could not produce children, and signs of the madness began to glimmer in Leon shortly thereafter. Now lucid and able to start anew, I find it unsurprising that he would want this. "You will try to take another wife, then?"

He is silent for another moment. "No. I… do not know. I think I need time yet." He takes a breath, and then suddenly returns to his usual smiling, content self. "But with you, O Chosen One, who can say what time remains to be had?" He nudges me affectionately.

The College of Winterhold looms before us. I admit, it had been Leon who had convinced me to start our search here. For as long as I have lived in Skyrim, I have never set foot in its walls; the mages of this place, it would seem, have little interest in killing one another. It defies logic, in my opinion, given the often-impassioned and high-minded squabbling so characteristic of academia… but logic also has surprisingly little to do with the self-flattering mentally elite.  _Oh no_ , I muse with a small smirk as I size up the looming, hooded figure of the gate guard,  _logic is a bitter poison to these types._

"Cross the bridge at your own peril," the gate guard calls to us from above, as we begin our ascent. "The way is dangerous and the gate will not open. You shall not gain entry." Her voice and stature, as becomes increasingly apparent as we draw closer, are distinctively Altmer.

"That is unfortunate," I reply with an added amount of haughtiness to my voice, "given the pressing business I have with the College."

I can only see the gate guard's frowning mouth under her hood, and presume that it holds an enchantment similar to mine. "You…" She pulls the hood down to reveal a face I have not seen, or thought of, in many years. "By the gods, Amara, when Enthir ran through here saying he'd seen the red-headed Dragonborn, I thought he'd lost his mind. But here you are… And Leon, too?" She crosses her arms, incredulous. "Talk about a small world."

"… Indeed," is all I can say through my surprise. Faralda Adaire of the Summerset Isles faces me with an expression of surprise and disbelief that must certainly be matched by the look on my own face.

My brother takes her hands into his in greeting. "I hoped to see another familiar face in this land, but yours!" He says this in  _Latine_ , at which Faralda makes a wry face. "My dear, you are as lovely as I remember."

"You know I never picked your language up, you scoundrel. Now you're just purposely grating my ears." She returns his greeting with kisses on both his cheeks, after the manner of the Imperial City. "But it's good to see you too." She returns her attention to me. "Descriptions of the Dragonborn have been flying all over Skyrim. Of course it had to be you." She shakes her head, though with amiable humor. "Of course you would stroll up this bridge as if you own it. And I take it M'lady Amara Dragonborn Aestus won't take no for an answer?"

"I see you remember me well, Faralda," I reply, unable to suppress my own small amount of sass. "Yes, I would appreciate passage into this backwater little College for which you thought it fit to leave the Synod. Posthaste, if you do not mind."

"I'm a senior lecturer here, you know," she snaps back at me, just as she raises her hand to magically activate the gates. "If any of the apprentices were to talk to me like that…"

We follow her over the bridge. "They would be, if memory serves, reduced to ash?"

"No, I've got a new one." She points her glowing pointer finger at me in a mocking threat. "I'd blast them right off the bridge."

"Ah, and still so terrifying!" Leon laughs. "Of course you would be made gate guard."

"Of course." She activates the final magical key, and the great gates to the College of Winterhold glide open before us as she leads us further inside. "The Arch-Mage has an office just ahead. I'll take you to see him first, and then you should be able to move around freely." She leads us to another massive set of doors on the far end of the courtyard, and from here, though a smaller door and a hallway that ends in a spacious, circular, and vaulted room brimming with ornate furnishings. The Arch-Mage is seated at his large, well-polished desk and hunched over a book.

"Wait," he says just as we cross the threshold to his office, though he does not raise his eyes from the book. A few moments pass before he marks his place and closes it, and then raises his eyes to regard us. "The Dragonborn herself. Word travels quickly around here, you know." He rises in greeting. "I am Savos Aren, Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

I can feel the magnitude of his magic even from the other side of the room. It is pervasive and cloying, and the Dunmer does very little to mask it. Even Leon, who stands beside me, obviously finds it difficult to hide his discomfort. It is for this reason that I move straight to business, social protocols and useless pleasantries be damned. "I seek an Elder Scroll, and for this, I require knowledge."

Savos Aren raises an incredulous brow. "I hope you haven't come here with the idea that I have one simply lying about."

"I did not. I seek clues, rumors perhaps. Anything that might prove fruitful, or that at least might give me an idea."

"Hmm," he folds his hands behind his back and moves to face a bookcase near to his desk. "Well, of course there are rumors. There are always rumors. And beyond this, always plenty of madmen claiming to have read one." He pauses again, briefly. "I presume you seek a Scroll for some grand purpose, Dragonborn?"

"One may presume," I reply, and with an effort to keep my voice steady. In this little room, I find his magic utterly stifling. "So I ask: can your College assist me in this endeavor?"

He pulls a book from the shelf and studies its cover. "Perhaps." He hands me the book in a sudden, and surprising, show of goodwill. The title reads  _Ruminations on the Elder Scrolls_ , authored by Septimus Signus. "You should speak with Urag gro-Shub in the Arcanaeum for further assistance. But…" He pauses again, and already I can see that this will not come without some kind of price. "The Arcanaeum is precious to us. As such, the doors will only open for students and faculty of the College."

I huff. Oh yes, of course I would have no choice but to enroll here. Of course. "You mean to say that the Dragonborn would make a welcome and glowing addition to your roster of associates. You do realize," I drawl, my hand resting on my hip in a gesture of defiance, "that I mastered my school long ago. And, mind you, I have little desire to teach."

"I do know this, of course," he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But surely you must have some area of research that could be of mutual interest to us. I know the magic in your bloodline, Lady Aestus, and I know the incredible talents that it can engender. I can feel its magnitude, even from here. It is the same for you, Lord Aestus. Both of you radiate that same rare form of power."

"Then you know the dangers, too," Leon quips before I have a chance to speak. "Would you risk a mass slaughter?"

"The Aestus curse? Oh, indeed." Aren returns to his desk and, after opening a lower drawer, files through several unseen papers. "Fascinating news has come from the Imperial City as of late. Ah," he pulls a letter from the drawer and waves it for emphasis, "this is from an associate of mine in the College of Whispers, received just shy of a week ago. House Aestus is in upheaval. Every elder scion has returned, fully lucid, and seeks to regain lost power over the younger generations. It might interest you both to know that this has devolved to outright skirmishing in the streets, and with much of the head family pitched against a majority of the branch families. Cousin against bloodied cousin, in other words. And all at once, as if the curse which had so long restrained all this inner turmoil were suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, broken."

Both Leon and I fall silent at the news. We agreed on the overwhelming likelihood of this outcome, of course, but to hear the reality of it is another matter entirely.

Aren speaks again while we brood. "I will make an offer. If both of you enroll here as students, I will grant full access to all college resources, including those normally reserved for faculty, although I would request that you attend at least one class meeting per month. If you enroll as faculty, I will not require that you give lectures—only that you conduct research of some kind in the name of the College, as time allows. Note this, also: either option will by default grant you safe harbor within these walls. No power in the world save Alduin himself could reach you here against your will."

"I do not like to be manipulated," I finally reply, and with a rising ire.

"Very few people do." He sits back down at his desk and regards us cooly. "I extend this offer to your silent companion there, as well." He gestures with his chin to Ungolim. "A certain talent for Illusion magic, I gather? The shadows cling to you and you move completely without a sound. You may enroll as a senior student, if you wish."

Ungolim merely looks to me for direction, and I must then look to Leon for an opinion, though the look that he gives me in return is rather blank. I take a breath, and decide that I would be damned before I would share any of my old Dwemer research with them. "I will be a master student, if I must. My research is none of your concern. I will come and go as I please, and with no explanation. I will attend  _one_ —and  _only one_ —of your class meetings as a gesture of good faith, and then you will not hinder my quest any further. Am I quite clear?"

He is silent for a moment as he considers my counter-offer. "Very well," he says slowly, though not without a show of disappointment. "And your companions?"

"My terms are the same as those of my mistress," Ungolim finally speaks.

"And I…" Leon says, his arms folded, "I will take a lecturing position, but after my sister completes her journey. I know your College lacks a master of shock magic. I can fill this place, but not before our most important goal is reached."

"A full position?" Savos Aren leans forward with his chin resting on his closed hands, his eyes glittering. "A full-time master of Destruction from House Aestus itself? That  _would be_  quite unprecedented."

" _After_  the journey," he repeats.

"Yes, after. Very well, I accept your terms." He rises once again and pulls a massive and rather ancient tome from the top drawer of his desk. "This is our enrollment roster," he says as he flips to a specific page. "Sign it, and you will be granted full access to the College. Only with your real names, please," he says with an eye on Ungolim in particular, "as the book is enchanted, and will detect falsehood."

I scowl as I take the quill from him. "You meddle with the will of the gods." He only smiles and points to the open page, which is marked  _Master Students_. My signature is flowing and quite beautifully-formed, and it occurs to me that this is the first time in nearly two years that I have written it in full. I pass the quill.

"No surname?" Aren says, as the so-called Ungolim of Valenwood finishes signing the  _Expert Students_  page.

"No." He gives Leon the quill and makes no further reply.

Leon signs a page titled  _Lecturers: Destruction_ , before Aren closes the book with a flourish and returns it to his desk drawer. "Wonderful," he says with a satisfied smile. "Welcome to the College of Winterhold. What you learn here, my dear colleagues, will last you a lifetime—several, if you're talented."

"The Arcanaeum?" I say from between my teeth.

"Lecture," replies the Arch-Mage with a smile that I must stop myself from cutting out of his head. "One lecture, and then the Arcanaeum. The Jarl of Winterhold requires our monthly report in two days, you see. A gesture of good faith between two powers." He says this with an obvious reference to my own words.

At this, I can say nothing further. I turn on my heel and storm out of the mer's office, furious for having faced such an unbearable amount of shameless manipulation, and seething with the knowledge that my choices are so few. I certainly could have tried to break into the Arcanaeum, but at what cost? I have no way of knowing what myriad protective enchantments might be in place here; put more accurately, I must either play nice, or not play at all.

Faralda is hot on my heels. "That was quite a show."

"Just take me to the damned lecture before I kill someone," I spit.

She leads us to a large hall and stops just past the threshold. "Come find me in the Hall of Countenance when you're feeling less prone to murder. We'll have a drink." She leaves no time for me to reply, and instead turns and exits the building.

A small gathering of students stands on the other side of a rather impressive fountain of magicka, situated in the middle of the hall. All of them are novice mages, barely able to light a candle.  _The only mage less impressive than this lot is Lydia_ … I must then try to suppress the memory of her many amusingly sad attempts at magic. Before her, I had never known any other mortal that I could classify not as some mere hopeless mage, but as a truly, wholly,  _magnificently hopeless mage_. But I must pull myself from these thoughts as quickly as they come, as all eyes come to focus on my companions and me.

"Welcome, welcome!" The gray-haired lecturer calls to us over the students. "Please join us, we were just getting started." I cross my arms while he stops to clear his throat. "So as I was saying, the first thing to understand is that magic, by its very nature, is volatile and  _dangerous_. Unless you can control it, it can, and will, destroy you."

A female Dunmer speaks up. "Sir, I think we understand that fairly well. We wouldn't be here if we couldn't control magic."

"Of course, my dear, of course," the old man says to placate her. "You all possess some inherent natural ability. That much is not being questioned. What I'm talking about is  _true_ control. Mastery of magic. It takes years, if not decades, of practice and study."

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's get started." A Khajiit student cuts in.

"Please, please, this is exactly what I was talking about," he admonishes. "Eagerness must be tempered with caution, or else disaster is inevitable."

"But we've only just arrived here! You have no idea what any of us are capable of," a Nord whines from the back of the group. "Why don't you give us a chance to show you what we can do?"

The old wizard sighs, and quite unexpectedly, he turns to me. "You've been quiet so far, miss. As I'm sure my senses aren't lying to me, I would like to ask if you have any experience to share."

"Your senses do not lie." I look at them, and all their eager desire to outshine one another. The sight makes me ever so slightly nostalgic. "When I was an apprentice," I begin slowly, so as to monopolize their attention, "I watched a mage adept, two years my senior and brimming with eager confidence for his new rank, melt his own innards with a misunderstood fire spell. I watched as some sort of foul black fluid gushed from every orifice of his body before his flesh caved in on itself like an empty waterskin. There was very little of him left to bury."

All that follows my words is a complete, nauseated silence. A few of the students even look faint.

"Well then…" The old wizard clears his throat once more. "Maybe we should start with wards, on that note. Any volunteers?" He looks at his class, now scared into willful inaction, and at which he just shakes his head. "And after all that eagerness? Sir?" He nods to Ungolim. "Care to demonstrate a ward spell?"

My Silencer nods and moves to stand clear of us as he gathers the magic into his open palm. "You know Restoration magic?" I ask him, just a little surprised.

"Some," he replies with a secretive smirk.

The wizard positions himself at a small distance across from Ungolim. "Now, if you will please cast the ward spell and keep it up." He holds up his palm, from which there burns a small magical fire. "I'll give it a little blast. Ready?"

Ungolim nods and casts a steadfast ward, which holds up even after the old wizard blasts it twice. The whole class claps as the two drop their magic.

"Excellently done!" The wizard smiles at Ungolim. "Now, everyone, let's spend the rest of the session practicing wards. I'll be around to lend help."

The students group up to cast what quickly becomes a magical mess while my companions and I stand by to watch. The noise is such that I fail to hear Faralda approach me from behind. "Hey, Amara!" She shouts from behind me, which causes me to startle and turn around, much to her amusement. "A messenger left this for you. Seemed pretty urgent." She hands me a folded letter, waves once, and then leaves us again to return to her post.

A sinking feeling strikes me before I even read the thing, and I take this as a bad omen. Uneasy, I move as far away from the racket as I can before unfolding the paper. The message is written in Brotherhood cipher, although hastily, and makes my blood freeze:

 

_Listener,_

_When the first spy we sent to track your housecarl did not return,_ _we sent Pheletes to find out what happened. He found the camp near_ _Falkreath, but could find nothing other than several masses of_ _unrecognizable gore._

_Shreds of our Brother's armor were found, as were several_ _other bodies, all ripped up beyond any sort of identification. Your housecarl's_ _armor and possessions were not found amongst the wreckage, but h_ _e did find a severed head a small_ _distance from the camp, though it was minced but for a few bits of black_ _hair stuck on the bone. Some kind of creature must have massacred the_ _whole camp along with our Brother. A search revealed no survivors,_ _only massive footprints headed north. We'll continue searching for the_ _creature, although I have a feeling that the trail's already gone cold._

_Babette_

 

The ink smudges. And then again, when another tear drops to blot the message away. And then again, until I cannot see any longer. Leon catches me before I hit the floor, but beyond this, my senses fail me.

 

* * *

 

_18 Rain's Hand, 4E202_

 

I wake in an unfamiliar bed. A gentle hand holds me down before I can attempt to rise. "Easy now, Dragonborn." Her voice is familiar, Nordic and gentle as her touch. "I gave you something to help bring you sleep. Lie still, or it will badly disorient you."

My blurred vision clears only gradually, but I do not find her difficult to recognize. "Danica." My throat feels raw, and I cough. "What're you doing here? And I have had your sleep aids before. I can walk."

Again, she pushes me down before I can rise. "Not with this one. And I was visiting an associate here, Colette Marence. Imagine my surprise when I heard your Shouting from across the campus. Something came over you." She presses a cool cloth to my forehead. "I have repaired many sets of bleeding ears since the last evening, you know."

I know.  _I know_. And I would start screaming again, I think, were I not still drugged and my throat not so raw from my first fit. But the thought recurs, again and again:  _Lydia is dead_. Tears prick my eyes and I do nothing to stop them.  _Lydia is dead. Massacred. Butchered._  But I surge up, unable to contain my grief, and the whole room lurches so violently that I fall back again. Then the tears simply fall, silently, as all of my being burns with a tight and indescribable pain.  _Dead_.

"Why did you administer such a drug?" I nearly roar. I want to run until my legs crumble from underneath me. I want to lurch and Shout and let all the world burn. Such is my rage, my wrath. " _Why?_ " The floor begins to tremble as my voice begins to sound otherworldly.

"Please, Dragonborn! Please…" Danica holds my shoulders and moves her face close enough to mine that I can see the plea in her eyes. "I beg you to be calm. Please."

The floor still as I make an immense effort to stop my thrashing and to quell my wild thoughts.  _She would not want this_. But the sobs come, even against my will. "It hurts," I choke. " _Lydia_. It hurts!"

"Your brother told me." Danica strokes my hair. The movement is gentle and reminds me of  _her_ touch,  _her_  easy affection. The pain flares to a point that I fear I will burst with it. Mortal skin cannot contain such grief. "Simply breathe now, Amara. Let your body have air."

I breathe. "You know my name." My voice comes out so much more quietly than would seem recognizable; so small and vulnerable, like a child's.

"Of course I do." She never stops stroking my hair.

The room grows quiet save for my heavy, sob-ridden breathing. Then, I ask again: "Did you drug me to keep me immobile like this? Danica, I want to move."

Her movements still do not cease, although I wait for several moments before I finally hear her hesitant reply. "It has certainly proven helpful, but no…" She takes another deep breath. "You are in a very fragile state. I think you need more time before I discuss this with you."

"Discuss  _what_?" I wrap my fingers around her wrist to stop her movements and fix her with a hard stare. "I am not a child. And there is little that you could tell me, now, that will break me much more. So  _tell me_."

"That hurts." Her eyes gesture to her entrapped wrist, which I release. She rubs it and gives me a look of empathy. "But you must trust that I will tell you in time."

I close my eyes, sad and furious and exhausted. " _Tell me_ ," I say in a dangerous whisper.

She begins to speak, and then stops. Another few moments pass before she speaks in earnest. "Have you felt… unusual lately?"

"Unusual?"

"Yes. Have you felt strange or weak… or nauseous, perhaps?" She obviously fights with herself to say no more, but the battle is already in my favor. I know it.

"Yes…" My reply comes slowly. Her features blossom with further concern. "Especially the nausea, and the tenderness of my skin is somewhat new."

"For how long?" Slowly, she moves her palm to rest atop my abdomen, which she watches intently.

I blink once, then twice. "A few weeks…?"

"Don't you feel it, Amara? Your body seeks to tell you." She takes one of my hands and rests it over the place where hers had just been. "It is old holy magic. A seed to take root in soil that might otherwise crumble away. It is a lesson; a very, very old lesson… on the beauty and value inherent in life. She wants you to learn."

She holds my hand in place, even as I grow increasingly—and frantically—confused. "What? Danica—" But then, yes, I feel it.  _It_. And it is small, barely a tendril of magic, but pure and white and pulsating like… "A heartbeat," I whisper, simultaneously overrun with equal amounts of wonder and dread.

 

* * *

 

_Author's Note:_

 

_So this is the part of the story where basically_ _all_ _the shit hits the fan._

_I'll say just this now, for fear of spoilers: Just stick with me._ _I'm not done yet._

_I wanted to write something raw and weird, and this is what came out… But there are certain things I simply can't resist in a story. Just catch my drift and do your best not to flame/slap/bitchslap me. ;)_


	14. Elder Knowledge, Part 1

**Chapter 14: Elder Knowledge, Part 1**

 

_18 Rain's Hand, 4E202_

 

"What did you do?" I shout at her, riddled with shock and terror. " _What did you put in me?_ "

"It was not me!" She holds up her hands; perhaps she does this to placate me, perhaps she does this in self-defense. "It was the goddess! She must have somehow—"

"The  _goddess_! Do you think me so daft?" I struggle to rise, but the drug weakens my bones and I can do little else but snarl in furious frustration. " _I know how to make a baby_ , and believe me, I would remember having attempted to do so. So, again,  _what did you do?_ "

"How could I have done it if you were feeling these things long before today? Kindly tell me." She crosses her arms, having grown impatient with me.

I close my eyes. This is the part where Lydia would be shouting something along the lines of:  _Holy shit!_  Or… perhaps, given the occasion, something more like:  _Holy fucking shit!_  The thought would make me smile if it did not first bring my tears. "I…" The room spins. "I do not know."  _By the gods, it hurts_. "But… how…?"

"The goddess," Danica repeats, now with a little more gentleness in her voice.

"But  _how_? What did she do, send some man to rape me as I slept? Shall I praise her now for my body's violation?"

"No! No, oh goodness. Definitely not." She pauses to think. "When did you commune with her last?"

"On The Throat of the World," I say with an embittered tone. My fingers pace over my abdomen, seeking another spark of that strange heartbeat-magic… or perhaps looking for a sign that Danica is instead playing some strange and cruel joke. "I blew the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller and received a blessing. Apparently I am also the next rightful Empress of all Tamriel, in addition to everything else." I laugh at the idea, but it is harsh and angry.

"But were you…" She tries to arrange her thoughts. "Was anyone else with you? You did not…  _connect_  with another person, somehow?"

My eyes, narrowed with bitter irony, shoot suddenly very wide open. "No, but…"  _That dream_. "There was an incident… before…" She had felt a strange dream, too. " _Lydia_ …" I gasp, and my fingers quit their desperate search in favor of shakily clutching my belly, tightly tensed in a mixture of protectiveness and pain.

"With Captain Lydia?" She rests her hands atop mine. "Tell me what happened."

I relay the dream from the Eldergleam Sanctuary, though haltingly, as I attempt to wrest control over my voice and the ragged sobs that fight their way to the surface. That was the last time that I saw her… the last that I saw her  _alive_. "She… asked me if I dreamt the same thing… when I awoke."

"But why did she… leave you there? Kynareth's gifts are born of love. She must have loved—"

"No, don't." Fresh tears make hot tracks on my cheeks. "It is a more complex matter than I wish to explain. But… please do not say that." Danica squeezes my hand in silent acquiescence, and we both are silent for several long moments.

"So, then… you see it was not a dream. The goddess took a small spark of life from the Captain and placed it inside of you. It is her gift, and her lesson."

I stare intently at the flickering shadows on the ceiling. "This is absurd." My fingers go back to their bewildered searching. "You must see it. The absurdity. A goddess has impregnated me with seed made from another woman. From  _Lydia_! Do you see it? What kind of ridiculous, cruel, outlandish lesson is  _that_? And what am I to learn? How to sing lullabies and wipe noses?"

"I already said—"

"You have  _said_  the strangest, most uncanny thing I have ever heard. Does your goddess not realize that dragons are tearing up the land? And what am I to do, now? Lie about and learn to knit while all the world blames  _me_  for their suffering?

"You will learn the meaning of  _sacrifice_ ," she cuts me off, before I can continue mocking her deity. "You will learn what it means to defend another living soul merely because they are  _alive_ , and not for reasons selfish to you. You will be given a responsibility that causes you as much love as it does pain, and you will defy the gods themselves to ensure its safe keeping. But first…" She rises, and looks down at me with an expression that I cannot decipher. "First, you will fight and purge yourself of your darkness. You chose to accept her when you accepted that small part of the Captain—you chose to be changed. It could not have happened, had the desire not burned in you already. And burn you will, from the inside out."

I can only gape, speechless, as she makes her way to the door and grasps the handle. She moves to pull it open, but then stops with a small sigh. She turns to me, and speaks again: "Yours is a hard fate. If you were not chosen to represent her, I think she would have left you to continue blackening your spirit in peace." She gives me a sad smile. "Don't look so surprised. Of course I know darkness when I see it… it  _is_  my job… But I also know the value of new growth… it is you, I believe, who first made that lesson clear to me."

I close my eyes again and listen to the sound of the door as it clicks shut behind her.

 

* * *

 

_13 Second Seed, 4E202_

 

A month. I expected to take a week or two at most… But instead my endeavor has stretched to a month of searching over a thousand tomes, and I have found next to nothing. I have grown pale from the lack of sunlight and haggard from the countless nights spent reading by magical candlelight. There is nothing… just  _nothing_.

And of course there  _would_ be nothing: what mad fool would break his mind with an Elder Scroll just for the sake of writing about it? There is the so-called Septimus Signus, of course, but finding him has proven a task as simple as finding one of the Scrolls themselves. Not a trace, nary a clue; meanwhile the situation outside grows ever the more dire, I am sure. But I remain here and endure the long and tedious hours, all with the hopes of finding something I might have missed before. What else can I do?

" _Merda_ ," I grumble, and toss the book onto a nearby table. I pull another, skim it, find it to be useless, and toss it in a burst of rage. " _Shit!_ "

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Urag gro-Shub's face and voice radiate disapproval while he holds up the very same book I have just tossed, having caught it in mid-air.

"My mother is dead." I open another book on the table and lean over it, angrily flipping its pages.

"Then go talk to Colette about it and stop abusing my inventory." He snatches the book from under me with a glare. "It's the same damn thing with you every day now for a month. You're hiding here in the dust while there are dragons out there burning down whole villages. And do you even know what Leon and Tolfdir just brought back from Saarthal, or have you really not left this room in a week?" He snatches my wrist before I can turn back to the shelf and ignore him. "You're running from your fears."

"Is that so?" I ask without looking at him.

"You're burying yourself alive in books you've already scoured, telling yourself you can forget that you're with child and that your woman's dead. Meanwhile my library's falling to shambles and I'm not sure if it's from a moody pregnant woman or a poltergeist." He releases my wrist. "Go outside and do something useful. In fact, don't come back here until you're glowing with a shiny new goddamn dragon soul. And don't use the child as an excuse—Orc females fight until the baby is practically dangling from between their legs."

"That is disgusting," I snap, though I turn on my heel and storm out of the Arcanaeum for the first time in several days. The first thing I do is go to my room in the Hall of Attainment, where I take a long bath and will my fingers not to trace the dark, vertical line that has formed on my abdomen. I try to ignore my swollen breasts and the ache in my legs… And then, once again, I am forced to tell myself that this is really happening.

This is… really happening. It is a strong and holy magic that I feel pulsating from deep inside myself, and though the supposed cleansing of my spirit has left me with certain physical pains, it is in my dreams that the real fires burn. My nightmares cause me to awaken, sweating and screaming, nearly every morning.

I dry off and dress myself in quick and efficient silence. My clothes still fit, at least.

I finally notice the neat stack of correspondence lying in wait on the table next to my door. I flip through the various letters: updates and tersely-described logistics from Nazir, news of completed contracts from the newly-promoted Gulitte, reports from Babette's still-inconclusive search for the rampaging werewolf… a small note from Arniel Gane, who has not stopped pestering me since learning that I am exceptionally familiar with  _Dwemeris_. I toss all of these to the side, where they land in a disorganized pile overtop of last month's official Imperial Legion casualty report and a letter of condolences from the court of the Jarl of Whiterun. She had no will; indeed, she had little, if anything, to her name.

"Ungolim," I say to the shadows in the far corner, which gradually reveal themselves to be a mer, "I hope you were not seeking to indulge in voyeurism."

He gives me a slow smile. "If  _Domina_  will allow me to say so: While you are indeed one of the few females I consider strikingly beautiful, I'm afraid my appreciation is of a more aesthetic sort than a carnal one. Though…" he gives me a playful bow, "of course, you know that I am ever at your service."

Though it is small and brief, I laugh, and his smile grows a little wider. He has been so attentive and considerate in this way, as has Leon. I could not dare to think what state I might be in now were the two of them not at my side. Truthfully, and after a sense, I find this particularly empathetic side of my Silencer a rather strange and unexpectedly pleasant surprise; then again, he has proven to be quite full of surprises, the more that I learn of him.

"Mm, yes," I reply, "I relish the thought that a male will find it necessary to pretend I am another male. A charming idea." I regard him for a moment, and allow myself to take a small amount of pleasure in the good humor that he and I share. I have always found him a rather handsome elf, with his lean and athletic frame and honeyed complexion. I say my thoughts aloud, and with a playful edge: "Females would positively drown you in attention were you to suffer a sudden change of preference."

"As would males, I think, were the same to occur with you,  _Domina_." He removes his shoes and sits on my bed with his legs folded before him, as one would sit for meditation. "But my service to  _one_  female is enough. It forms the limit of just how deeply I'm able to feel affection for the fairer sex, which in turn satisfies me against further attention, of any sort, from others."

I furrow my brow. "I found that a little vague. You mean your service to The Night Mother?"

He gives me a long, searching look. "It was not The Night Mother,  _Domina_ , who saved me from myself."

I dip my head, touched. "Thank you."

"Honesty doesn't necessitate thanks." We sit in silence for a few moments more. It is comfortable, and I am glad for it. When he speaks again, it is with a soft and careful tone. "Though I do have a request,  _Domina_."

"What is it?"

"I have no desire to be made a Speaker, as I believe you have been planning. This would force me to relinquish my place as your Silencer, and truthfully I don't like the idea. I'm quite content like this. That and…" he shakes his head, though with a small smile, "I'm afraid I can't trust Leon alone with your protection. He is rather easily… distracted."

"Oh, I do know that," I agree. "If that is your wish, then of course you may keep your place. I would never force you."

"Thank you." Another pause, then: "I received Fafnir's report this morning. He, Pheletes, and I have not quit our search, but we still have found little to no trace of Septimus Signus. I'm beginning to wonder if it would be better simply to send someone to the Imperial City to steal a Scroll from the Moth Priests. That, at least, might prove more fruitful."

I pinch the skin between my eyes. "And the Arcanaeum has enlightened me only very little. I found only one other relevant book, and that was nearly as incomprehensible as the  _Ruminations_." I drum my fingers against the arm of my chair and think on my altercation with Urag. "Maybe a change of direction is in order."

"Of what kind?"

"Dragons have been attacking several villages at random… and they have even been seen flying over larger cities, though there have been no significant encounters yet. I think my time might be better spent out there, bringing them down. Pheletes and Fafnir can continue the search while we do this."

He raises a brow and his eyes move, as I would have expected, to my abdomen. "But… your condition…"

"I am pregnant, Ungolim, not an invalid. I have not even begun to show." I press my palm there, where I feel the white magic that grows more pronounced with each passing day. I have a feeling that this child will possess a formidable affinity for magic, should the tingling in my hand prove any indication. "Moreover, I must take their souls to grow stronger. I think I will need that strength when the time comes."

He folds his hands in his lap. "And there is still the matter of that rampant werewolf. Except for a scattering of small-scale massacres, it seems to have disappeared entirely. I worry that we might cross its path, should we leave the College."

I scowl. Yes, the creature that so quickly and conveniently managed to slaughter Lydia beyond recognition. Naturally it will have disappeared. "I would like to share a thought with you, Ungolim, of which you may never breathe a word to any other."

"On my life,  _Domina_."

"I have started to wonder…" I lean forward and try to control my anger. "Do you remember what Nazir and I spoke of when last we were in the Sanctuary?"

"Yes, of course." Realization dawns over his features. "You think…?"

"I  _wonder_ ," I correct him. "It was rather convenient, after all, that she died so quickly after that little disagreement. And so mysteriously. Think of it, Ungolim: an overpowered werewolf on a bloody rampage, and yet not even a Brotherhood spy can locate it? No. I have begun to think that our encounter with that werewolf was a chance misfortune… one that just so happened to prove a convenient scapegoat for an otherwise fatal betrayal of the Listener's orders. A  _speculation_ , of course." Still, my anger boils in my chest at the idea.

He is silent for a moment, lost to thought. "That is… I hadn't considered that. Yes, put that way, it does seem too convenient." He blinks. "But how many of our number would be involved in such a thing?"

"I cannot say. Perhaps one, perhaps several. There is no way for me to know, short of receiving an open confession."

He looks up at the ceiling. "I must share a private thought with you as well,  _Domina_."

"You may share it."

"I worship Hircine," he says when, after a brief pause, his eyes move back to me. "Though I have found my respect for Sithis, it is Hircine who has always been my lord. I entreated him for your protection in the past, and because of this, the matter of the werewolf troubles me." He takes a breath. "That a werewolf might have killed your housecarl… that troubles me."

"Hircine… I have sometimes wondered. Well, what of it troubles you? I hope you are not about to tell me that her death was borne of your good intentions."

"No," he says quickly. "Definitely not. I mean to say that your protection includes your well-being. If she affects it, then she should have been spared. To me, this indicates a few possible explanations: either he ignored my request, some other creature caused the massacre, or, yes, there has been some other kind of treachery."

I narrow my eyes. "And yet, you would have killed her on that day, had you the chance."

"Yes," he admits, "and then you would have killed  _me_."

"Would you now, if she were to appear before us?"

He searches my face. "No, so long as she wouldn't try to kill you first,  _Domina_. But that… if you will forgive me… I think that is a moot point, now."

 

* * *

 

I find Leon standing next to Tolfdir in the Hall of the Elements. I shiver upon entering the building, though this proves unsurprising: the whole center of the hall is dominated by some sort of… orb.

It is the strangest sensation that I have ever felt. It is as if I am simultaneously hot and cold and the air all around me is charged as if I were standing at the center of a lightning storm. From head to toe my skin erupts into gooseflesh as wave after wave of incomprehensible magic washes past and through me. The thought strikes me that this might negatively affect the child, though I hope not.

The two other mages begin to walk around the thing, all in a slow and thoughtful gait. I overhear Tolfdir as I make my cautious approach: "I'm sure you've already noticed the markings. They're quite unlike anything we've seen before… Ayleid, Dwemer, Daedric… not even Falmer! None of them are a match. Quite curious indeed."

"And can you  _feel_  that?" My brother's voice is full of eager wonder. " _Magnifica_. The magicka radiates, flows. I have never felt such a thing." He notices me when I halt next to them, equally as drawn by the thing… whatever it might be. "This is the thing we found, _Mara mea_. It is beautiful, no?"

The orb rotates on some invisible axis, and indeed I cannot fathom the origins of its markings. "What is it? Some sort of… Dawn magic?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Tolfdir chimes, as if this fact pleases him. "Of course I could speculate that this is  _Ehlnofex_ , but no one actually knows what the language looks like. But it's amazing! I mean…" He reaches his hand out as if to touch the thing, but then retracts it out of caution. "Imagine what we could learn from this if we crack its code. Just imagine…"

Oh, I can imagine. I can see some mad genius gaining knowledge unfit for mortals and using it to enslave all of creation. "Leon," I tug his sleeve. "May I have a word?"

He nods and follows me out of the room and back into the courtyard, where the pull of the thing is not so potent. The relief of this washes over me almost instantly. "You have found something?" He seems distracted.

"No, I have… come to a decision. I think it is time to leave this place."

"But…!" Now he glances in the direction of the Hall of the Elements and the orb that has so captured his attention. "The construct… Amara this is a discovery to define an Era. You saw it for yourself…" He trails off when I dip my head. "Ah—ah, now, Mara. Not with such sadness. Forgive me. I know what is more important, believe me, I do."

He envelops me in an apologetic hug. "If you wish to stay here," I say against his shoulder, quietly, "I will not stop you."

"Oh you know I could never leave you at such a dangerous time. No, I was hoping that the construct could help us in some way. How, I cannot say… but," he smiles down at me, "all knowledge is worth having. Especially now."

"How can you quote the Patriarch without souring your face?" I bury my own face deeper into his shoulder.

"I still find it a good saying, unfortunately." He pauses for a moment. "Give me some time to study the orb… a week, perhaps. If I feel that it will not help us, then we will leave."

"…Fine."

"And ah… what are we going to do if we leave? You did not say."

I smile wickedly. "Why, we will be killing dragons, of course."

He just sighs, exhausted already.

 

* * *

 

_16 Second Seed, 4E202_

 

It is a damnable thing. I know this as well as I know the many dangers of magic.

It mocks me from where it floats, glowing with knowledge that no one has been able to tap. It predates anything previously seen by mortal eyes, of this I am certain, and it is composed of a substance that cannot be described from within the current limits of human language.

This is the third time that I have come to brood over the thing in the dead of night. Something about it disturbs me just as much as it entices me, though I would speculate that many of the other mages here are having a similar experience. I dislike it. I dislike this thing immensely, though I cannot be certain if this dislike comes out of opinion or out of instinct. Regardless of the source, I know without question that this thing does not belong in mortal hands. I want to remove it and bury it even deeper than Saarthal, but I could not even begin to know how.

I am equally as tempted to utilize it for my own needs… and it is this temptation, above all else, that alerts me to the incredible danger inherent in this object.

I walk in a slow circle around it to follow and to more easily read its inscriptions. It is not the language of the dragons. It is no language that I have ever seen before, and indeed I have seen many. This thing… it must be a leftover from the last birth-pains of creation. In a way it reminds me of a dream I had, once, when I was a very young girl. In the dream I travelled through the sun and entered the realm of Aetherius, where I was allowed to take a glance at one of Magnus's many diagrams for the substance of reality.

Now, staring at this orb, that same sensation of  _wordless knowing_  tugs at the vague edges of my consciousness, as if I were looking at the world through some indescribable diagram. "Some things…" I say to the orb, "I suppose some things cannot be made into language." I have considered reaching out and attempting to touch it, but I have no way of knowing if something might happen to me as a result. But if I could make contact with it somehow…

_Oh_ , I could damn Leon for making me stay here long enough to become interested in the thing. And he knew this would happen—he knew!

Yes, of course I would come back to stare at this damnable construct. I still rather dislike the sensations I feel from the air around it, but this one small discomfort is not enough to stop my inevitable curiosity: as soon as I felt that vague reminder of my childhood dream, I was compelled to come back here and study it.

I hold up my hand. "Can you tell me without speaking, then?"

The orb, of course, remains silent. I keep my hand raised, however. It would be so very foolish to touch this thing, though I do wonder if magicka could be siphoned from it. If so, then perhaps I could at least  _feel_  some of the object's purpose or substance. I concentrate, and by only just a small amount, I open myself up to it.

My vision flashes white, but when it fades I notice that I am still on my feet.  _Curious_. But… I feel as if I could fly, should I truly desire the ability. I take a deep breath. It is a different sort of magicka… in a word:  _unreal_. It is…

"Aetherius," I whisper to the thing as I sit down on the floor to stare. It is magic of the purest sort, never before touched by the fabric of reality. It is different from the tendrils of Aetherius that manifest in this world as magic or ghosts… that is trapped magic, endlessly re-used generation after generation… no, this is some finer ichor; it is the birthplace of Magnus himself. It could be nothing else. "But what  _are_  you, then, if you are not some mere unique concentration of worldly magic? Some kind of… star?"

Though of course I receive no answer.

"A star…" I muse aloud. "A path to the realm of magic… But how?" I sit on the floor, gazing up at it, with my legs drawn up to my chest and my chin resting on my knees. I briefly think of how my mother would have disapproved of such bad posture, which results in a sad smile. I close my eyes for just a moment. "Yes, you would tell me to get up and find a chair, I think."

"I certainly would."

I startle and jump to my feet. It takes a few seconds for me to recognize what now sits before me, perched and posed like some elegant, ghostly statue on the stone lip of the magicka well. I am too shocked, I think, even to weep: " _Mother?_ "

"Close your mouth, Amara. I find it unseemly." My lips snap shut immediately; it is without thought. "To answer your immediate question: it is indeed a star, or more like a star-in-a-box. As it leads to the realm of magic, of course, it must by default lead to the realm of the dead. You absorbed some part of that place and then you thought of me, so I chose to come and speak with you. Does this satisfy your initial bewilderment?"

"Ah…" I intone, but I seem to have lost my powers of speech.  _Where do I even begin?_

"I would appreciate full sentences, dear. Has this barbaric province really made you forget how to act like a lady?" She fills in, again, when I still cannot bring myself to speak: "I should also warn you that I have little intention of remaining here all night, so do resolve your shock. Puzzle and brood over this conversation in the morning, and not now."

"Yes, I…" I take a steadying breath. "Forgive me, Mother, this was… quite unexpected."

"As was your hot-headed flight from Cyrodiil, but," she looks down at my belly with a small smile, "our line seems to have an affinity for the… unusual."

"Ah," I feel my face grow hot, "that is…"

"I know what  _that_  is. I know everything about it. I have been watching you, you see." She gives me a long look. "In truth I always thought that Leon would be the one of my children to join the Dark Brotherhood, and yet you have even risen to the office of Listener. Ah, but I have not come to admonish you. I imagine you have suffered enough for that, have you not?"

I can only nod, mute, as my throat swells with emotion and the tears finally prick my eyes. I have so much that I want to say— _so much_ —but no words come. I want to say a million things all at once.

"Cry when you lay down to sleep later, so that you might speak now. There is something that I have come here to tell you, but I would prefer that you remain calm… Oh, Amara…" She watches me struggle with myself as I try to choke down my shuddering sobs. "I know there is much that must be left unsaid. I know. When you die, I promise you, we will have an eternity to bicker over it. But now you must calm yourself." I continue my struggle. " _Amara Leone_ ," oh,  _that_  voice; the voice that causes all my insides to freeze, "I said to pull yourself together. Do it,  _now_."

I straighten my spine and fix my posture. I try to swallow my pain, though I do continue to shiver. It is rather humorous, in a way, how her orders cause such a quick response in me… even now. "Y-yes, Mother."

"Thank you," she says in a warmer tone. "As I said, I have been watching you. A mother knows no greater sorrow than her children's pain, as you will learn soon enough." She nods toward my growing child. "And yours has been immense. More than one god has placed his expectations on your shoulders, and one even in your womb. And now they say you must be  _purified_  as well?" She shakes her head. "I find that absurd, and that is what I have come to tell you."

"Ab… surd?" I repeat, unsure of what to do, or what else to say.

"You said so yourself, dear. Yes." She eyes me. "The gods chose  _you_ , Amara, and not you them. What their mortal representatives seem to forget is the importance of balance. The world really can never be rightly understood in terms so black and white. That is foolishness, and that foolishness is a sickness that too many of our fellow mortals share in."

"Between good and evil, you mean?" I ask, though with uncertainty. "Yes, many of my trials have been for the sake of altering my spirit… to… reach into me and rip out all my evils. I am… unfit, otherwise."

"No," says the ghost of my mother. "No. That cannot be done. The parts of you that are  _evil_ , as they say, cannot be taken away. Who would live in your skin, were such a thing even possible? She would not be  _you_."

"But then…" I grasp at my robes, my fist just over my abdomen. "Then… this… why all this interference? Why… why a  _child_?"

"Balance, Amara. There can be no such thing as true good or true evil; no black or white. No, this world of ours knows so very many shades of gray. Evil and good are intertwined. Bound. You embody both, and you must accept this." She gives me a long look. "The child is a sign and a reminder of that; not a lesson, and not some sort of catalyst for change. She is a gift; a product of your capacity to love. Do you understand?"

"I…" I close my eyes and loosen my grip, so that my hand now rests gently over my belly. "She?"

"Oh, forgive me," my mother says, completely devoid of any real remorse. "That was a slip of the tongue."

"She," I repeat, "is to balance me?"

"She is to be loved and nurtured by you. She is to be protected by you. What that might entail… well, you would know better than most, Dragonborn."

A small, rueful smile. "She is to keep me on that path."

"She is to remind you of your own wish to keep walking it. Know yourself, Amara. You know that no one can be free of evil. The same great leaders who send their soldiers after your Brotherhood are also the ones who most frequently call upon your services. We are all of us shades of gray, and now you have even physical proof. So…" she says, more quietly, "stop dreaming of fires. Stop fearing your own body, and stop torturing yourself with painful memories and guilt. You are what you are, Amara, and…" almost in a whisper: "… it is enough."

I dip my head, too overwhelmed to speak, my hand still rested over the growing child.  _Enough?_  That is such a novel concept. Rarely in my life has there ever been a moment free of the pressure to prove myself, or to exceed expectations: not with my teachers of magic, not with my kin, not with the peerage of the Empire, nor with my colleagues in the Synod. Only the Dark Brotherhood was kinder, and even for this I first had to be named  _the Listener_. "I would not have expected to… hear this from you, Mother."

"I wish I would have told you long ago, Amara." She clasps her hands. "Had I been kinder, perhaps you would not have left."

"Ah—no, you… have no need to speak that way—"

"But I do." Her ghostly form leans forward, ever so minutely, as if to communicate a wish to approach and embrace me. "I was falling to the madness, and instead of asking for the comfort of my daughter's presence, I tried to clip her wings. But it is…" a small, sad smile, "rather hard, I think, to clip the wings of a dragon. I see it in you, my dear: it is indeed the shape of your soul."

She begins to fade. "You must leave?" I say in what is nearly a whisper, as the tears come again to well up in my eyes.

"Yes," she says with equal emotion. "Remember what I told you. Shades of gray, my Amara. It is enough." Just as her form disappears completely, her voice rings softly throughout the chamber: "I will be watching."

Then all is quiet, and I sink back down to the floor. Tears fall, but I think I am too shocked and too rattled to weep in earnest.  _Enough_. I want to call to her and I want to beg her not to go. Of course I know the uselessness of such a thing, but still there is a part of me that is screaming, thrashing, railing against all those things over which I have no control. But the scream is silent; contained. I merely watch my hands, bathed in blue from the orb, as they dig into the stones that pave the floor.  _Mother_.

"So… a conduit to the dead," I say to the orb, even as my whole body shakes. And how could it not shake? I can only react, for I know not what else to do. There is, all at once, too much emotion to swallow down.  _Mother_. "That was not fair," I say to her through my tears, even though she is gone. "You know I dislike surprises."

I am met with silence, but perhaps she can hear me, at the very least. Her voice still rings in my thoughts.  _I am enough_. I breathe deeply, shakily, and tell myself to believe it. "I should tell you I am not wholly good," I say to the child. But then I pause, and realize that this is the first that I have ever spoken to it…  _her_. I give a shaky, sad, tearful laugh, and then continue: "But I am not… wholly evil, either. I… I am… trying."

Silence. I sit still for a few moments, and simply allow my torrent of emotions to run their course. "And you…?" I finally say into the magically-charged air. I thrum with apprehension, but continue speaking: "Would you come here, and let me say my peace? Would you grant me that…" I almost choke on the name, "… Lydia?"

I look up. All the chamber is still. All is empty.

Silent.

 

* * *

 

_17 Midyear, 4E202_

 

I can never prepare myself adequately for this feeling.

Every dragon soul brings with it new shreds of memory and new knowledge. Every time, I feel their last thoughts, their sadness. For hours afterward, I think dragon thoughts.

This was an old dragon, well respected among his kind and very powerful. His flesh burns away until naught but a towering skeleton remains, and his soul, I claim for my own. For a few moments, I mourn along with him over the loss of his wings, and then alone as his consciousness fades. I let it pass on its own, and tell myself that this had to be done: now, the old dragon will no longer terrorize Karthwasten, nor cripple the trade routes to Markarth. These mountains have long since not belonged to him, despite his insistence that they do.

"By the gods…"

I notice, finally, the crowd that surrounds us. I turn and push my way out from the center of the throng, though my trek is made ever the more difficult by the many hands that reach out to touch my robes, or the odd blade that attempts to slice off some small bit of my hair. They ogle and tug, wide-eyed and afraid.

I push through and say nothing. I neither make threats nor act with civility: I merely do what must be done. My companions follow, in equally efficient silence.

We regain our horses toward the edge of the little village and trot away, again, without a word. How many now? I try to count, but the number escapes me. Too many. But the more I kill, the more powerful I become. In a way it grows easier, every time: indeed my Thu'um is formidable, even as the whole rest of my body seems to grow ever the more soft and sore. I can see it, now: a roundness low in my belly.

We stop to make camp a little off the side of the road when the sun begins to sink over the horizon. Fafnir finds and joins us just as we begin our evening meal, and sits to eat after passing me a small bundle of letters. These I stow away in my own satchel, as I have very little desire to read them at present.

"May I speak, Listener?" Fafnir finally breaks the silence of our small group.

"You may."

"This is really fresh news. I just heard it from our Sister over in Morthal two days ago." He lowers his voice. "She found Cicero."

I pause, mid-chew, to stare at him. " _What_?"

"Yes, Listener, in an abandoned shack in the middle of the marshes. She found… well…" He pauses for a moment. "She found was what left of him, I mean."

I swallow, and I cannot stop my heart from pounding with a combination of anger and anxiety. "He has been killed?"

"That's what it looks like. She was checking the place to see if it would be useful to lure her target there. She found him spattered all over the walls, like he had been ripped apart. But she recognized his hair and clothes. It was him."

I meet eyes with Ungolim, who sits to my left. "Ripped apart," I repeat. I feel no pity for Cicero, I must admit. In truth I can only admit that I regret not killing him long ago.

"Yes, as if by claws, Listener."

I scowl. "I see." The mysterious rampant creature, again. Of course. "I assume the trail has gone cold again."

"Yes and no. There were some tracks going south. She pointed them out to Pheletes, who was there before me. She told me he left to follow them, but I don't know anything besides that."

"I see." I resume eating. The creature usually leaves a messy path of tracks in some form or another, so this news holds little interest for me. I work merely to sit and take my meal with patience.

"The lost cousin," Leon muses aloud, though he speaks the common language out of politeness to Fafnir. "I have thought on this, after that day. I remember no… ah…  _flagitia_?"

"No scandals," I fill in for him. "Nor do I. I have not the faintest clue."

"I, too. He can only be the  _scel_ —the  _bastard_ son of someone. It is sad, no?" My brother shakes his head. "The madness took him alone."

"He was loathsome," I spit.

"He was like us," is Leon's gentle reply. "I wonder: who was he, when the madness stopped?"

I am chided back into silence.

 

* * *

 

_29 Midyear, 4E202_

 

"I smell like dead dragon," Leon quips as he slumps down on a nearby boulder. "Surely there must be a limit to how many dragons a mortal can kill in his lifetime?"

The soul shimmers just under the surface of my skin, all aglow from exercise and my physical condition. Fafnir falls to the ground just beside him, panting heavily. "You both make a sorry sight," I quip right back. To Fafnir: "I assume this was your first encounter with a dragon?"

"Yes, Listener," he wheezes. "If… if you'll allow: I think I pissed my pants, but it was worth it to watch you fight that monster. By Sithis." He takes a few moments more to catch his breath while Ungolim approaches Leon with a vial of health potion, which he takes gratefully. Fafnir speaks up again: "I have news, Listener. Urgent."

I, too, finally seat myself on a fallen tree trunk. Even with the ability to Shout dragons out of the sky, I still cannot seem to avoid the heaviness of my body. My hand rises to my belly immediately, where it has grown obviously, although not yet massively, round. "What news?"

He sits up and wipes sweat from his brow, and grows quite suddenly somber. "Pheletes is dead."

I shoot right back up to my feet, as does Ungolim. " _Now Pheletes?_ " I roar, and the ground shakes with my Voice. Rage floods me, as does a hate-fueled sorrow. " _Where?_ "

"A-A ways north of Falkreath, Listener," Fafnir says shakily, filled with trepidation at my otherworldly timbre. "He must have followed the trail there from Morthal. Falcar lead a search party when he never came back to report. They… found his body… impaled and hanging on a tree branch. The torso was ripped open and there were teeth marks where his heart should have been."

"I have had  _enough of this_ ," I nearly growl. "Enough. Pheletes was one of  _mine_." Furious, I begin to pace. "There were no tracks leading away from the scene?"

"There were, Listener." Fafnir rises to his feet, still cautious. "Going still south, toward Falkreath."

I look up at the sky, where the sun is still at its peak. We have been heading west out of the Reach for a few days already, and Falkreath certainly would make for a reasonable choice of destination, should we continue on this road. "Then we go there next. Fafnir," I pull a slip of paper from my satchel and give it to him, "those are new contacts. And on your way to Dawnstar, I will need you to seek out a skilled tailor."

He pockets my note. "A tailor, Listener?"

"Yes," I say angrily as I smooth out my robes. "For when I have the wolfskin for my new cloak."

 

* * *

 

_2 Sun's Height, 4E202_

 

"…Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me… For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear…"

I halt upon hearing the faint, but familiar, chant. I motion to Leon that he should be silent, and together, we wait and listen.

"…Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me… For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear…"

The chanting is close. All of Falkreath is otherwise still and silent as death. It has been like this since my companions and I first arrived this morning, and I cannot remember ever seeing the town so particularly somber as this. Our service at the inn was efficient and wordless, and no one would hear my questions about sightings of wolves. Only one person, an old hunter named Valdr, provided any clue as to why the whole town is in such a state: there had been a murder.

Why  _that_  would phase a town such as this one, I could never claim to know.

Even so, I have decided to take an  _evening stroll_ —for leisure, of course—and certainly not to make a light search for what might be so special about this particular murder.

"…Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me… For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear…"

… And it seems I shall not be disappointed.

I pull an amulet from under my robe and, with a small amount of fire magic, heat it up between my palms. It is one of Leon's odd little inventions: it shares some sort of magical link with a twin amulet, and the activation of one causes the activation of the other, which in turn alerts the receiver that his presence is needed by the sender. It even gives the sender's general location, though by what means Leon managed to include this, I have no idea. In any case, it is a rather clever little thing.

Ungolim materializes out of the gloom after a minute or so. I hold my finger to my lips and motion that he listen:

"…Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me… For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear…"

My Silencer's eyes widen. All together now, we follow the sound of the chanting. I remind myself to be grateful, once again, for having enchanted Leon's shoes to be silent; though he is not so poor a sneak that Lydia was, he still is of a rather meager skill level. We follow the chanting to a nearby cellar, of which one of the wooden, near-horizontal doors is propped ever so slightly open.

I scoff. How careless.

"…Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me… For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear… !"

I make to pull the door open, my shadowy cloak already pulled from my satchel and over my shoulders, but Leon stops me. I give him a pointed look, and he just gestures down to my obvious belly. I blush.  _Merda_. I had not even thought of that. Agitated, I pull my cloak back off and look to Ungolim, who nods once in understanding, takes and fastens the cloak, and enters the cellar.

The chanting voice grows louder when he opens the door: "Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me… For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear… !"

I grow suddenly uncomfortable with Leon's presence here, in this situation… But he says nothing. He merely wraps an arm about my shoulders and, with a bit of Illusion magic, cloaks us both in shadow. In our darkened silence, we listen to the chanter's plea:

"Oh, thank the gods you came! You're them, right? You're the… the Dark Brotherhood?"

"Yes," comes Ungolim's ominous reply. He does indeed make such a fine Speaker…

"Good, I…" The man fumbles over his words. "I need justice. That monster, it… it  _killed_  my little girl! Ripped her to pieces right in front of me. There wasn't…. there wasn't even anything left to bury. The murder's in the jail now, just rotting away while the jarl figures out what to do. But… but that isn't right! They'll probably just behead the damn killer, quick and painless. No. I want it to  _suffer_. I want you to torture it until its last breath." By the end of his speech, the man is nearly roaring in anger.

Ungolim's voice remains cold and even. "Slow torture will cost more. What you ask is time-consuming and inefficient."

"I don't care. I'll pay anything. Do anything it takes. But you gotta kill it slow and painful. You gotta."

"Very well." A brief pause. "You will sign this contract. Make your payment, and we will send word when the target has been eliminated."

"One more thing," the man says after another pause. "I want its head. Do that, and I'll give you extra."

"As you wish." Another pause. "Our business is complete. A courier will notify you of the contract's completion."

Ungolim reappears a few moments later, and the three of us quickly leave the area. Upon entering my room in the inn, I lock the door behind us and he immediately hands me the contract. "Imagine that," I say, as I unfold the paper and skim it. "A mysterious,  _body-tearing_  murderer, and I have only just arrived in town."

"Are you to go to the jail tonight,  _Domina_?" Ungolim asks with an obvious concern on his face. "If so, please let me accompany you."

"And I,  _Mara mea_ ," Leon gestures to my belly, and shakes his head when I give him a pointed look. "I would feel much better. Do not look at me with that expression. I know it is Brotherhood business, but I think we must let that go for now. Please?"

I acquiesce with a sigh. "Fine. But stay quiet and keep your hood up." I fold the contract back up and place it in my satchel. "And yes," I say with a growing fury as I lift up my own hood, "we finish this  _tonight_."

 

* * *

 

_Author's Note:_

 

_1\. The whole pregnancy thing has been this weird idea in the back of my mind ever since I started this story. I was never 100% sure, up until I actually wrote it in and posted it, if I actually wanted to do it. I mean, yeah, it's a liiiittle out of left field… so that's why I made sure to include plenty of ranting and confusion over it. I want it to take a long time before Amara can really come to terms with it, and I want it to be a beautiful moment when she does. I know it's weird. I know. :P But it's kind of different, and I wanted to see what would happen if I went with it._

_2\. The questline for the College of Winterhold won't factor in much, here. I just thought it would be neat to share my speculations on the Eye of Magnus with you all. ;) Also, when I was writing the scene between Amara and her mother, I couldn't help thinking of The Lion King. Then all of a sudden Amara's mother was giving the "Remember… WHO YOU ARE" speech in my brain and it looked like I was laughing for no reason. SIMBAAAAA! xD_

_3\. I spent a lot of time in previous chapters describing dragon battles. I skipped over all that in this chapter because, honestly… it's getting kind of redundant for me. Same as in the game: you're walking around and it's like OH LOOK. ANOTHER DRAGON. WOW. So… I mean it's all the same yadda yadda awesome kill-cam move, but I'll let you all picture a pregnant woman Shouting dragons out of the sky for yourselves._


	15. Ill Met by Moonlight

**Chapter 15: Ill Met by Moonlight**

 

_2 Sun's Height, 4E202_

 

In the dark and quiet, out here in the dead of night and on my way to face—and slowly kill—what may very well be Lydia's murderer, I feel the fleeting, fluttering movements of the child for the first time.

I gasp and stop in my tracks, which startles my companions, who draw their weapons with twitching fingers and look all about in a tense sort of alarm. I rest my hand on my abdomen, where indeed the child has insisted her presence be known. Another flutter. It is… it is the strangest thing I have ever felt. "The child," I clarify to my companions, who now express obvious relief, "it… moved."

We resume our walk, though my steps feel a little stranger. Leon keeps close to my side. "Is this the best thing to do, Mara? With your…" he hesitates, briefly, "… condition?"

I scowl. "And just yesterday I encased a dragon's wings in ice."

"Yes, but… this will be in close quarters, with little room to hide. It would not be like a fight with a dragon." He touches my arm, gently. "I… know that you still have your strength. Do not misunderstand me."

I lay my hand over his. "I know, but this must be done."

The Falkreath jail looms before us, marked only by a pair of torches burning on either side of the main entrance and a tense guard standing before it. He seems to grow ever the more tense as we approach. "Halt!" He says just a little too loudly, his hand raised. "No visits. No sightseeing. Jarl's orders."

"We would like to go inside, if you will." Ungolim's voice is so enticingly smooth as he steps directly before the guard. He leans in close, and I can feel the potent magic that he uses to hypnotize the poor man. I smirk. He spent his time at the College rather productively. "Let us inside."

"Inside…" replies the guard, effectively mindless. "Of course, Sir."

He turns and unlocks the door, and beyond that he even holds it open for us like some sort of uncouth and brainless butler. With a shake of my head I enter the building, my companions close behind. The long interior hall is gloomy, lit by scant torches. We traverse it silently, and with every step my heart leaps to a quicker rhythm. The child flutters, perhaps startled, perhaps afraid. Almost immediately I can detect the essence of Hircine, confined as it is to this relatively cramped space.

It is potent; even I know this, and I do not consider myself an expert on werewolves. I can merely feel it. I look to my side and see Ungolim's troubled expression; he must feel it as well, perhaps more so than I. The air here is simply… restless with an angry, heavy sort of energy.

Another guard, standing at the end of the hall and just at the threshold to the main cellblock, makes a feeble attempt to stop us just before Ungolim waves a hand and he drops to the floor, unconscious. A furious splashing sound erupts from one of the cells, followed by a low, rumbling growl of warning. All the other cells are empty.

I stand before the bars of the only occupied cell, and feel the slip of a bead of sweat as it glides down the back of my neck. What meets me are a pair of luminescent eyes and a heavily shadowed form, stark against the gloom. It growls again; the vibration resounds all around the room and wrenches my guts.  _A fear spell…_ I tell myself.  _Just a fear spell_ …

We could only have done it this way: one does not sneak up on a werewolf. I inch forward ever so slightly and prepare to Shout the creature into a prison of ice. I inhale…

" _Don't you fucking dare_ ," the wolf growls in a voice… that…

She steps forward and into the torchlight, and all the world stops with her. Another flutter. I can not bring myself to breathe, though. I cannot…

"If you Shout at me, Listener, I swear I'll go berserk. And believe me,  _you don't want that_." She comes close to the bars and towers over me like some kind of beautiful nightmare. Beautiful, even though she is soaked and filthy and looking at me with such hate. "That hood won't hide you. I could smell you as soon as you walked in."

With shaking fingers, I pull it down. There is only one thing that I manage to say: " _You… are alive…_ "

"For now," she says through her teeth, "though not for long. Right, Listener? Come to finish me off?"

" _Lydia_ ," I choke through the shock. "By the gods… Lydia…"

" _No_ ," she roars and grasps at the bars. They bend in her fists. "Don't get all fucking sentimental, you psychopath. You came here to kill me, so do it! Kill the rabid monster that tore open a little girl just to eat her heart. Make a good name for yourself,  _Thane_ , and feel better that now I'm just as evil as you."

"You…" I try to move forward, but both Leon and Ungolim prevent me from touching her. "N-No, I…"

She growls at them; the sound is so unnatural and… horrifying. "If I transform…" she warns, "you're all dead. So do what you came here to do." Her eyes flicker down to my abdomen, and for the briefest, fleetingest of moments, an expression crosses her features that looks almost familiar… human… "Before I have to kill  _another_  child this week…" But then her breathing grows more rapid, her eyes more terrifyingly luminescent, the longer she stares. "W- _Who?_ " The muscles in her arms bulge and the metal bars groan under her fury. " _Who was it?_ "

"It is not—"

"And while I wept and could touch no one, even as a wolf. You…  _You!_ " She roars. The cage door squeals as one of its hinges breaks loose. Ungolim steps between us and tries to back me away, though I resist. "What'd you do? Fuck  _him_?"

" _No_ —" I push at Ungolim, though he and Leon together make my resistance all the more difficult.

"I beg your peace, Hunter!" My Silencer says to her, even as he tries to keep himself between us. "The woman is untouched—"

" _Am I talking to you?_ " The cage door flies off its last screeching metal hinge and skitters to the floor. More quickly than I can see, she swipes both my brother and my Silencer away and presses me flat against the opposite stone wall, her twitching palms on either side of my head. She is so close, I could reach up and touch her furious face… " _Who?_ "

I cannot help it: I shake with fear. She has always had a sort of… power over me, but now that combines with a real, primal terror. It is true fear because… I know that, still, I could not bring myself to harm her, even though she could very well tear me limb from limb in this moment.  _No, I…_  The way we look at each other now, with such intensity, so near and… and… I reach up, slowly, gently, and wrap my fingers around her wrists, and we both inhale sharply at the long-awaited touch. She lets me guide her hands down to rest above the child, and I whisper: " _You_."

I watch her nostrils flare as she inhales, and she looks down and then back up again to continue our long stare, her features stricken with such a  _human_ look of disbelief.

"Stay where you are," I say to my companions, though without ever taking my eyes from hers. "Just stay." Timid, I move my hands to rest over her own. There it is: white magic, like a heartbeat-pulse. Lydia is the first, other than Danica and Colette, whom I have allowed to lay hands there; I have let no one else touch me.

And then Lydia kneels and all but presses her whole face against it, inhaling again. "I smell me… I  _feel_ …" She makes small movements with her fingers, more gently that I would have thought her capable of. She looks up, wide-eyed and heartbreakingly familiar. "H-How… ?"

"We shared a strange dream… on that day," I prompt.

She follows, filled with animal rage but ever clever. "We did." She sits on the floor and watches my belly with wonder. "We… did."

"Lydia," I call to her, softly, as I crouch to meet eyes with her. My chest feels tight, and I quiver with longing to reach out and touch her, though I refrain from doing so. "What happened to you?"

My question seems to remind her of our present situation, and she draws her legs up and radiates that same dangerous tension once more. "I was camping with some Legion soldiers. We were ambushed." Her eyes narrow. "I transformed when one of them bit into my chest. They say you gotta drink wolf's blood to be able to change… Unless it's in your blood already. Then you just need some inspiration." Through clenched teeth: "I slaughtered all of them. The pack and the soldiers."

"You did…" I say quietly, still unwilling to believe the sight before me.  _She is alive_. I fear if I make too quick or too sudden a movement, I might wake up to realize that this is all a dream. "So you… have always been a werewolf?"

"Apparently," she sneers. "Not that I knew it before." She glances down at her hand, upon which I finally notice the small metal band, its centerpiece in the shape of a wolf's head. "So are you going to kill me or not? You probably already know I'm responsible for the deaths of a few of your other underlings. Your courier, for example," she says with a wicked sort of anger, "your stableboy, your horse, the jester…" She leans a little more toward me. "I even found out who  _Babette_  is… or  _was_ … Remember how you fucked me 'till sunrise to make me forget about asking? Well, I remembered anyway."

"You—" She just laughs at my horrified reaction. " _You killed Babette?_ "

"I would say that makes two children, but I guess she really can't count. Snide little shit tried to lure me over to her from the side of the road in the middle of the night. Oh we had a long,  _long_  talk before I finally finished her off." She opens her arms. "Motivated  _now_ , Listener? I would say fair's fair, but I think we're a little past measuring just how fucked up all this is."

_Babette_. By the gods… How did she manage even to kill her? I look at Lydia, who all but twitches with rage and the urge to fight, and realize how small I feel just now. How powerless, and… at a loss. My hand remains protectively rested over my belly, and she watches this despite, I think, how much she wants to avoid doing so.

"Mara," Leon addresses me in  _Latine_ , "let us restrain her. She is too dangerous—"

" _Tace!_ " The angry wolf jumps to her feet and shouts at my brother, shocking us all with her fluent speech: " _She_  got a baby and I got a language. Believe me, you have not even  _seen_  dangerous yet."

Leon takes a defensive stance. "I will fight you, if I must."

"Tempting," she says in a low growl.

"Lydia,  _please!_ " I am up and wedged between them before I can think to stop myself. She backs away as soon as I touch her, but I follow, and place a firm hold on her shoulders so that she must stay close to me, and must look down to meet my eyes. How many times have we stood like this… smiling, talking? The face that looks at me now is so distorted by pain… "Please."

"You're making a mistake," she warns, returning to the common language. "I could kill you in seconds."

"I…" I try to swallow my fear, my uncertainty. "I do not think you will."

" _Not unless you do it first_." Her voice drops by an entire octave, the skin on the bridge of her nose wrinkles and her luminescent eyes narrow to slits.

I feel faint, as if I were staring Death in the face, but I fight it. "Why do you want to die so badly?" My voice sounds so small…

My question seems to take her off-guard, and her eyes flicker away from me, and then back. The muscles in her arms and shoulders twitch, and she says through angrily-clenched teeth: "I don't want to be a monster like you."

It hits like a shot to the heart, such that the feeling of faintness escalates to leave odd sparkles at the corners of my vision. It hurts to breathe. "Do you know how much I have tried… Do you… ?"

"You came here on a contract; I could hear that fucker's chanting from all the way over here. You came here, pregnant with  _my kid_ , to kill me. So no, I can't say you've tried much." She pulls away again, and stands a little hunched over and under an obvious strain. "So what're you waiting for? Do it. Tell the kid you had to be a hero and put me down, if it makes you feel better."

From just under the palm of my hand, I can feel the fluttering of our excited child. I dip my head as the frustrated, painful tears finally prick my eyes. "I could not do that."

"An open invitation and the Listener's suddenly having second thoughts? I think you're—"

"I  _could not_  tell our daughter that her other mother was anything less than heroic!" I cut her off and raise my eyes back to her, unafraid to let her see my pain. "Nothing less than the one woman who could… who could teach me how to be the Dragonborn." My hands ball into fists. "It was you… whom I wanted to make proud. After everything, what else could I do? I cannot go back and change the past, even if I should want to, so I would not be otherwise forced to regret that day for the rest of my life. And of course I regret it." I shake as the tears fall. "Of course I do."

She just stares at me. She wears an expression of immense strain, and her fists clench and unclench with intense and uncontrolled energy. She bends forward ever so slightly and what erupts from her throat is a terrifying, unearthly growl. " _I can't… control my…_ " she rasps through her sharpening teeth.

"Please, Hunter! Peace!" Ungolim and Leon grab me and hasten toward the exit. "Please!"

Lydia hunches over and… transforms. An ear-shattering roar blasts all through the chamber as her bones audibly crack and reshape and fur and claws burst forth from her skin and I see emerge, just before we three take off running and all I can do is hear her make her furious chase, is a massive black wolf nearly twice the average size.

She catches up to us just as we exit the building.

I grab my brother and my Silencer by their sleeves. " _WULD NAH KEST!_ " I hear the beginnings of both their alarmed shouts just before we blast off at a near-blinding speed… and just before Lydia's claw can take off Ungolim's head. " _Get up!_ " I shout at them when we land, my voice tinged with the Thu'um. Dizzy, they clamber to their feet and take off with me again. Lydia is coming up fast. I cast myself in magical armor. "Prepare yourselves!"

We make to run out of and away from the town. Buildings fly by us and to my side, Leon mutters a spell to himself while lightning jumps up and down his arms. A well-placed shot from him could stop her heart; I know he is capable of it.

He fires from over his shoulder, before I can stop him.

It hits her and she howls furiously, but she does not stop or move any slower. I would gasp, were I not currently sprinting away from her: that should have killed her. That should have  _at least_  paralyzed her and sent her flying in the opposite direction.

But she roars and leaps through the last several feet to reach us. Suddenly she has Leon on the ground, and her claws are half a second from ripping him to pieces. Fear boils up in my chest along with my Thu'um as her paw seems to come down in slow motion: " _FUS RO DAH!_ "

The wolf goes flying and lands hard on the dirt, several feet away. I run to Leon, who lies motionless on the ground, while Ungolim aims an arrow at the wolf's brow. "Your ring is cursed, Hunter!" He shouts as Lydia gets back on her paws, her lips pulled back to reveal two rows of razor-like teeth. "It worsens your rage and forces your transformations!" I nearly weep to see that Leon is still breathing; he is unconscious and the three massive gashes in his chest are bleeding horribly, but they seem only skin-deep. I cast the magic to heal them. "I can help you!"

" _I told you_ …" comes Lydia's wolf-voice, though her lips do not move. My brother's flesh knits together, and the bleeding gradually comes to a stop. " _I told you not to Shout at me!_ "

After a few seconds I stand and face my snarling ex-lover, who approaches with a slow menace. "It is me she wants, Ungolim." I step over Leon and in front of my Silencer, so that I might stand between them both and the wolf. I draw my dagger; it is the very same one that I used, all that time ago, to tear her clothes from her body. "Attack my brother again, Lydia, and my Shout will do much more than force you away."

She laughs… if wolves  _can_  laugh. " _Now_ there's _the Listener, threatening me like I remember_."

"Her ring,  _Domina_ ," Ungolim says with urgency. "It's cursed. She'll be able to control her transformations if I break it."

"How?" I say through clenched teeth, though without ever taking my eyes off Lydia, who warily eyes the magical fire in my left hand. "Yes," I say to her, "you know what I can do with  _this_."

The wolf barks and its claws rip into the dirt. " _Kill every friend I ever had!_ "

I breathe through the pain.

"We must appease Hircine. Hunter!" He calls to her again. "Use your superior abilities to find and kill the White Stag! We few mortals aren't worth your strength."

" _A few mortals_ ," comes the unnatural wolf-laugh. " _You speak with me as if you don't know me, Silencer._ " She crouches as if to make another deadly leap toward us… and this time, toward me. " _And my woman's no mere mortal_."

_My… woman?_  I raise my blade and… decide to do something perhaps stupid. "Find this creature, Lydia, kill it and appease your new master." She just growls. "Did you not hear me?" I force the tone of voice that I have always used to chide or remand her, and although my high state of emotion makes it far too difficult, I keep on with it: "I said,  _did you hear me_?  _This_  is what makes a real monster, you idiot! It is one who does her evil and then refuses to live with her actions. Force me to kill you, Lydia, and you will be a monster worse than I. And beyond  _that_ ," I shout at her, knowing this word will hurt her the most, "a  _coward_! A lowly coward, dead in the field with a sword in her back. Is that how you want to die?"

She flies into a rage, tearing her claws into the dirt and sending it up in gritty sprays. My words seem to have hit their mark; if nothing else, then, I can claim that at least I know her far too well. " _You've got… some nerve… saying that!_ " The wolf paces, torn between bloodlust and pride. " _You're nobody to talk about an honorable death, Listener. Nobody_."

"I am learning," I say more steadily. My knuckles are so white; they contrast sharply with the black metal of my dagger. "It was you who reached me first. Your actions… your ways… they changed my whole world. You…" I inhale sharply, "You are the real savior. If I had not known you, I would never have kept to my path. I would have remained the Listener, and nothing else, and the world would have been engulfed in flames long ago."

The wolf gives another rage-fueled cry. " _Just_ kill me _! I can't live with what I've done._ "

I finally lower my weapon as tears well in my eyes once more. "Let me help you."

She tenses and snarls when I begin my slow approach. " _Are you_ suicidal  _right now?_ "

"No," I say gently, and continue toward her. "Let me help you, Lydia. You taught me to take responsibility for my actions… let me teach you to live with yours." She is so indescribably massive; she towers over me when I finally—stupidly—stop just before her. I ignore Ungolim's vocalized protests, and slowly, gently, reach out my hand and touch her forepaw.

She…  _shivers_. She looks down at me and, even in wolf form, and even with their unnatural luminescence, her eyes are still so very, very green. " _I could tear you in half_."

I lightly brush the fur of her forearm. It is… softer than I would have expected. "You would have done so already."

With a growl she drops suddenly to sit on her hindquarters; her posture is like some odd combination of human and canine. A few moments pass before she speaks again. " _I don't want your help._ "

I grab her fur and give her arm a hard shake, to which she growls and shows her teeth. "Petulance is unattractive."

She leans in dangerously close, and I can feel her hot breaths on my face. " _And what makes you think I care about that?_ "

"If I am still  _your woman_ , as you have said, then I would think it does indeed matter to you." My chest is tight as I say these words, filled with too many emotions to reliably name any single one.

Again she laughs that strange, bitter wolf-laugh. " _You're my woman no matter how much I hate you. You're marked, even if I don't actually want you. And now you're having my kid. So long as the thought of you with anyone else still drives me berserk, you're marked._ " Her nose almost touches mine. " _And I'll fucking kill anyone who thinks different._ "

Now I am the one to shiver, almost… perversely  _pleased_  with the idea… despite all the many things that are obviously wrong about it. "Even so," I challenge, "I find your petulance unattractive."

Her breaths are deep and loud, and still so very angry. She stares at me, and I stare right back. " _The White Stag_ …" she begins abruptly, as if to refuse that I am the apparent victor in this violent conversation of ours. " _It's in the forest to the east. I can smell it. Get your horse and try to keep up._ "

I look back to Leon, who has awakened but still lies on the ground in obvious pain. "We need to move him first," I say to Lydia, who now twitches with impatience. I move to tend to him before she can protest. "How badly are you injured?" I question him gently, while Ungolim moves so that he now stands between myself and Lydia.

"My shoulder is dislocated, I think," he grunts. "But no broken bones."

I remove my satchel and help him to sit up, and then I hold its thick strap before his mouth. "Bite down on this. Ungolim, help me." My Silencer, though with a small show of reluctance at leaving his post, crouches beside Leon and takes up his injured arm. My brother hisses in pain, but keeps a firm hold on the leather strap between his teeth. "I will count to three…" I tell Leon, although to Ungolim I say  _On two_  with just my lips. He nods and I take a firm hold on Leon's torso. "One…  _two_ …"

Ungolim redirects my brother's arm back into place in one quick and fluid movement. Leon shouts through the leather strap and his face is white as a sheet, but to his credit, he does not faint. A few moments pass before he spits it out. "You said…  _three_ …" I work on his residual pain with healing magic.

"You would have tensed up too much," I say bluntly.

He sighs as the magic seeps into his skin. " _Mara mea_ , casting Restoration magic. This world will always find a means to scatter my expectations."

I give him a small smile. "This is mostly to help with the pain, though it should speed up healing… I think. But you must go back to the inn and rest, and you will need a sling." I help him up.

"I will  _not_  leave you with that rabid wolf," he insists. "Unusual circumstances or no, I would be mad to leave. And of madness, I have had quite enough." He holds out his good arm, and gestures to the bindings that cover his forearm with his eyes. "Use these for the sling."

I look between him and the bindings. I know what lies under them, and why he keeps both his wrists bound. "Is that wise?"

"I have little choice." He smirks in reassurance, though still I hesitate. "Peace, Mara. Unless you hesitate out of concern for the state of your hair," he teases. "My dear Bosmer," he says to Ungolim in smooth  _Latine_ , "are you able to call our horses?"

Ungolim scowls a little at Leon's tone, but nods and, his fingers to his lips, whistles loudly.

I sigh and begin to unwrap his wrist and forearm. "Faralda was right in calling you a scoundrel." Bit by bit, a line of faintly blue runes appear from beneath the binds. They begin to glow as they meet the open air, and already I can feel the small hairs on my arm stand up straight in response. The muscles in my hands begin to feel strange, though this does not deter me. "Both arms?"

"Mm, no, just the one." He flexes his hand when the binds come fully loose, and his whole forearm becomes encased in an electrical charge. "Have a care not to shock yourself," he says as I begin to devise a sling from the bind.

He hisses in pain when I force his arm to move again. "I know, Leon. Better than most." It is always so strange to touch him when he chooses to remove his binds: the air around him is charged almost to the point of discomfort, and the proximity gives me gooseflesh from head to toe.

I thought he had fallen prematurely to the madness when, still only an adolescent, he first chose to do this to himself; but no, his only goal had been, as he put it:  _to meld with his element_. Little had he known the countless mundane troubles his obsession would cause him: his hair stood constantly on end for months, such that he always looked like a hilariously startled cat. For the longest time, he could neither touch metal nor stand in bodies of water. By the time we finally wrapped his arms in the enchanted binds, my poor, traumatized brother stank like city sewage in hot summer.

The memory causes me to smile a little, despite all the events of this evening, and truly it is welcome. He sniggers. "Your hair."

"And yours," I reply smartly. At least now he has much greater control over it, even without the binds, which he most commonly wears now only out of habit and courtesy. I finish the sling and step back. " _Please_  try to keep it immobile. I am not nearly skilled enough to restore it completely."

He twirls a small bolt of lightning about his finger. "Rest assured, the pain is reminder enough."

Our horses skid to a nervous halt at a substantial distance from the pacing, impatient wolf, and whinny in obvious discomfort. Ungolim knickers at them as if in reassurance, but they do not come.

" _Stupid things_ ," Lydia grumbles. " _Are we done? Get moving before I eat them._ "

I glare at her. "If you dare kill another of my horses…"

" _You'll do what?_ " She walks past us on all fours and thankfully ignores them. " _Kill me?_ "

I grit my teeth, mount my horse, and force it to follow her.

 

* * *

 

The way that Lydia tears into the creature makes it very clear just how painfully and violently my Brothers died.

I hear its scream just a moment after she jumps into a thicket of trees a ways ahead of us. The sight that greets us, when seconds later we catch up with her, is rather gruesome: the massive wolf is hunched over the broken and bleeding body of what was once a large white deer. Huge gashes mar its sides and only a bloody stump remains where once there was a head, which the wolf now gnaws on with a vicious vigor. It is… quite the spectacle.

" _Greetings, Hunter_." A ghostly form rises up from the slain deer, causing Lydia to spit her prize onto the ground. " _That was fine work. Ruthlessly efficient._ "

The wolf simply blinks at what must apparently be her new Daedric master, perhaps unsure how now to proceed.

"My Lord Hircine," says Ungolim with a deep bow, "your Hunter carries your cursed Ring. Will you look favorably upon us and lift it?"

" _I might consider it._ " The spirit draws a little closer to Lydia, who stands stock-still, all but frozen in place. " _Your line has always been a favorite of mine, come directly from my first and strongest Hunters. My finest creations. Perhaps too fine_." The spirit holds its head up with pride. " _Your forebear stole that ring from me, thus its curse. Do me a service and I will remove it._ "

" _What… service?_ " Lydia replies with tension.

" _He has retreated to what he_ believes _is his sanctuary, just as a bear climbs a tree to escape the Hunt, only to end up trapping himself. Seek out this rogue Hunter! Tear the skin from his body and make it an offering to me._ "

The wolf dips her head. " _It will be done_."

" _Fly, Hunter!_ " Says the spirit as it departs. " _There are others vying for my favor. A bit of competition, if you will._   _Don't dally while the prey flees_." The aspect of the deer fades to nothing, and a tense silence comes to reign over the bloodied clearing.

Lydia says nothing, but sprints northward after a few moments pass. We follow. "What just happened?" I call to Ungolim as we gallop back onto the road.

His expression is solemn. "She's a bloodline wolf. By forebear, Hircine meant her father. We are on our way to kill her father,  _Domina_."

My blood all but freezes. "She said she never knew either of her parents," I say with urgency. "And I have never seen that ring before."

"He must have given it to her recently, then," he replies. He watches the wolf ahead of us, who runs at a mad pace. "I think this is why she knows where to go."

I grit my teeth. "That…" I cannot stop it: my heart aches for her. Perhaps, in some other part of my life, I would have harbored much more apathy… but now? I think of the child growing within me, and cringe. "There must be some other way. This is…" I find it difficult to form the words. What would Lydia have said? "This is… not right."

"It is Hircine's will,  _Domina_ ," he says, and with little shift to his tone. "She must follow it, much as you must follow The Night Mother."

I furrow my brow, and dare not imagine myself juxtaposed into such a situation.

 

* * *

 

I know that we have crossed to a strange place when the sun does not eventually rise.

When Lydia finally slows down, what rises instead to meet us is Hircine's Bloodmoon, about which I have only ever read in books. For a few moments, I must look at it in a sort of scholarly awe, in spite of the ominous cast it throws onto our surroundings.

We are led between some rocky hills and down into a wooded grotto, now bathed in the Bloodmoon's crimson light. I dismount my horse and watch as Lydia cautiously approaches a naked, half-dead Khajiit, who lies bleeding on a nearby rocky plateau. "Hunter," he rasps, "the prey is too strong… but more are coming."

The wolf's head rises up to sniff the air as the Khajiit falls limp. " _Stay behind me_ ," she orders before trotting ahead.

"Are you sure of this, Lydia?" I say while I attempt to keep in step. "This is—"

" _This is what you said should be done_ ," she says before I can finish. " _And you chose a really inconvenient time to grow a conscience. Be quiet, and damn it I said_ stay behind me." She moves a little faster so that I can no longer walk beside her.

We follow her up a worn staircase of stone, where she stops quite abruptly and looks wildly about.

" _Sinding!_ " She calls out. " _Sinding, you bastard! Stop hiding!_ "

A great shadow casts over us, and when I look up, I see another titanic black werewolf watching us from a cliff, standing tall and stark against the backdrop of the Bloodmoon. " _You must be one lucky girl, seeing as you're still alive_."

Lydia growls and angrily snaps her jaws. " _The ring you gave me is cursed! You were just trying to save yourself._ "

The wolf Sinding jumps down, leaping from rock to rock, until he lands before Lydia. " _And now the little pup comes barking, with the Hunt not far behind_." He looks directly at me and bares his teeth. " _But before I kill them, I think I'll kill your woman first_."

Lydia roars and leaps at him, and their fight turns into a tight, bloody mess of teeth and claws. Shouts echo from behind us, coming from other worshippers of Hircine who can hear the fighting wolves. I stand looking between one disaster and another, my heart racing as I try to decide where I should cast my lot.

Sinding bites down on Lydia's shoulder and she cries out in pain. " _Lydia!_ " I make to rush toward her, but Ungolim pulls me back by the arm.

"She won't be able to stop herself if you get in the way." He looks in the direction of the oncoming flood of hopeful hunters. "And they'll hunt both wolves down if they see them."

Sinding yelps as one of his ears is ripped off and tossed to the ground. He swipes at Lydia and catches her across the nose before he claws his way up the cliff, Lydia hot on his tail. She will pay the mortal hunters very little heed as long as her… father… is still able to fight. "We should protect her, then," I say before casting myself into magical armor. "Leon?" I call to my brother, who stands with his good arm raised and a small storm brewing in his palm. "Will you be able to fight?"

He gives me a small laugh in reply. "Oh,  _Mara mea_ ," he says with good humor as he traces electrical runes into the crimson air, "I have not spelled these runes in  _ages_. I think I should rather fear turning them all to ashes."

"I found them!" A hunter runs up the stone steps and raises his bow to aim at the wolves fighting atop the cliff.

Leon opens his palm. The hunter freezes in place, unable to move a single, locked muscle. Lightning arcs across and through his body until, after a few seconds, he, his armor, and his weapon, all disintegrate into a small pile of ash. From a corner of my vision I can see Ungolim's jaw drop. Leon stretches his arm and a series of rune traps appear all along the stairs and the path leading to it. "We may walk over them!"

I lead us at a brisk pace over the rune traps and toward the clamor of another group of hunters. "Why're they fighting?" I hear one say. And I hear another: "Which are we supposed to kill?" And another: "Is this a test?" And another: "Do we kill them both?" The man at the fore of the group, apparently their leader, see us and calls out: "Hey—!" just before Leon casts a chain lightning spell that pierces all their chests at once.

"They're killing the hunters!" I hear a man cry out a short distance away from us. An arrow whizzes dangerously close to my ear and buries itself in the dirt just behind me. Another man: "Get 'em! Kill 'em!"

They come at us in disorganized waves. We lead them slowly backward and over the rune traps while I maintain a wall of fire before us that is massive enough to burn their arrows to useless cinders. A roar sounds from above.  _Lydia!_  The hunters fall to ashes as the traps catch them. Ungolim finds a vantage point away from my fire and midway up the cliff from which he releases a rain of deadly black arrows.

We push forward again when we run out of traps, but only until I hear heavy footsteps from behind and turn just in time to Shout my assailant down: " _KRII LUN AUS!_ " His life force leaves his body, unleashed like a river broken from its dam, and he drops. I draw the magical symbols for a fire storm. "I have the rear!" I call to Leon just as a small group descends the stairs that lead further up the cliff and charges at us. I cast. Their mouths open in silent screams just before flames burst up and out of their windpipes. The flames form an expanding whirl that catches all who come too close.

We fight much in this way until no more hunters come to assail us. Sweat trickles down my brow. "They are not very smart, charging like that." Leon shakes out his hand.

I hear a scream, and see that Ungolim has just pierced on final straggler through the heart. He gives me the signal of All-Clear.

A roar and a yelp sound from above us, where the fighting wolves have disappeared over the cliff face. I cast my magical armor again and charge up the stairs, where I reach a high platform guarded by an ancient statue of Tiber Septim.

And nearly the whole stone floor of it is covered in a shallow pool of blood.

One black wolf stands facing away from us, panting hard, itself bleeding rather badly, and over the headless body of another black wolf. The head lies off to the side, having been clawed and chewed right off. My heart pounds when I realize that I cannot tell one wolf from another. I do not know who was the victor.

The living wolf leans back and howls at the Bloodmoon, its claws stretched and its muscles bulging, and then it turns to growl at us. I hold my breath.  _Did Sinding also have green eyes…?_

The wolf sways once, and then twice, before falling to its weakened knees in the pool of blood. Its claws come up to cover its face, and all at once, its body begins to shrink. The fur falls away. The bones crack and reshape. The claws and snout retract until all that is left is…

_Lydia_.

The human Lydia; naked, human, and  _alive_ , pitches deliriously to the side. I run and catch her in my arms and hold her close and upright, all soft pale skin and small human body pressed for warmth and support against my shoulder.

If it were possible, I think I would never move from this spot.

"I won," she says softly against my neck, and I feel the tickle of her breath. It brings me to tears. "I took off his head for you…" A pause. "F-for your… contract."

I blink the tears away and bury my face into her sweaty hair. " _Lydia_." I clutch her tightly.

She stands, but does not force me to let her go. No, she… puts her arms around my waist, lightly, loosely, and speaks softly from where her mouth and nose are pressed against my hair: "I still need to make my offering. Can I have a knife and…" she pauses for a moment when she glances in the direction of my two  _male_  companions, who stand nearby, though with their eyes averted, "something to wear?"

I nod mutely against her collarbone, too overwhelmed to speak, and she waits patiently for me to wipe my tears and finally pull away from her. I unfasten my cloak and pull it off my shoulders. It is soaked halfway through with blood, as is all the rest of my clothing, but she takes it without hesitation and even allows me to fasten it for her. It is a little small for her and reaches only just above her ankles, but it does what it must.

Together the four of us haul Sinding's body out of the pool of blood and onto a higher, dry portion of the plateau, and just before the crumbling effigy of Tiber Septim. I cringe with disgust every time my boots squish their red prints into the stone. Lydia lays out the body for skinning while Ungolim retrieves the head and sets it aside.

"Not that dagger," she says when I pull my ebony blade from its sheath at my side. I look up at her in confusion. "You own the last Blade of Woe in existence, don't you?"

"Ah…" I hesitate, growing uncomfortable. "Ah… yes, I do."

"Give it to me," she commands.

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"Give me your Blade of Woe," Lydia repeats. "Or do you really not want to start doing this whole… I don't know…  _meeting-in-the-middle_  thing?"

I reluctantly reach into my satchel and retrieve the Blade, which I present to her. She takes it and holds it up to study it in the light of the Bloodmoon. "Of course I do," I say as I watch her. "For months…" I continue, all the while with an attempt to ignore the fact that she is using a priceless artifact to brutally skin a werewolf, "I… I mourned you. But seeing you alive… even like this…" She grunts and pulls off an expanse of skin and hair. "It is…"

She drops the flap of skin she was cutting and stand up straight to look at me. Her hands and arms and my priceless blade are covered in gore. "Are you really trying to be sentimental right now while I'm skinning my estranged werewolf-father's corpse? Or have our lives gotten so fucked up that now anything goes?"

"Ah—" My arms wrap about my abdomen, and she notices. "Forgive me."

She grunts and bends down to continue her work. "You. Silencer. Get your blade and help me." Ungolim looks to me and I nod, and he crouches to assist her without a word. She surprises me by speaking again after a moment: "I met him randomly, just after I was turned. Said he recognized my smell." She pauses to slice into a thick hunk of flesh. "Apparently I look like my mother, as far as he can remember. They were only together for a night. She was a wolf, too." She pulls an expanse of skin away and lays it neatly to the side, and then flips the body over. "He gave me this ring, saying it would  _help_  with my transformations. Well. It makes them so much worse, and I couldn't take it off. I would run as a wolf for days on end."

"He took advantage of you?" I say quietly, as I watch her and Ungolim part the flesh from the dead wolf's chest.

"Yeah. I think he was hoping the curse on the ring would die with me. He didn't think I would survive." She smiles bitterly and scoffs. "Probably should have paid more attention to his own progeny, instead of leaving them to the streets of Riften. Then he might've known what I'm capable of."

I inhale; all around us there is the stink of blood. I ask a question before I can stop myself or wonder if she would want to consider it: "Do you wish to give him a funeral?"

Ungolim slices the last scrap of flesh away, and she pulls it up. She stands, holding it in both of her blood-soaked hands, and regards me. Then her eyes narrow, her brow furrows and she looks down at her feet. "Do we… have that kind of time?"

Her tone of voice is so… human. "We do," I breathe.

"Then… yeah," she says without looking at me. "I'd like to."

 

* * *

 

The skinless, headless body of Sinding the Werewolf, the father that Lydia had never known, lies with its arms crossed on a makeshift brushwood pyre. Her face is tight as I set him alight with a quiet snap of my fingers.

His skin and head lie in a macabre heap nearby, ready for transport. Lydia, clad in my bloodied cloak, my Blade of Woe clutched in her bloodied fist, watches him. "Would you like to say anything?" I ask her, gently.

"I don't know what to say," she replies without ever tearing her stare from the spectacle. "He… just planted a seed. Then twenty-five years later, he tried to kill me and save himself. He never tried to know me or my mother, whoever she was. M-Maybe he should have." She closes her eyes and her shoulders tremble, but she does not weep. To Ungolim: "Y-You know Hircine's funeral rites?"

His hands clasped solemnly behind his back, his chin low, he replies: "Just the main verse."

"It'll do." She does not stop me from moving close, nor from wrapping an arm about her waist. A little awkward and obviously conflicted, she nonetheless leans into me as she listens.

I close my eyes;  _it is enough_.

Ungolim softly recites: "Hound of Hircine, the Hunter, after long become the prey/ You fly to his Grounds, his boundless glory, his lordship o'er night and day/ If Paradise is his Hunt, and the greatest Hunter be you, then Paradise is at his side/ Through endless wood, mountain, cave, and from under the Bloodmoon's eye."

The tall, burly ghost of a man, naked but for a pair of ragged trousers, appears before us, and faces the funeral pyre. " _You have done well, Hunter_ ," he says to Lydia from over his shoulder. " _The curse is lifted from your Ring. You will find it very helpful while in wolf form._ " Sinding's skin disappears. " _His skin will serve you as well. I will harden it, and make it into armor to best protect my new chief Hunter. You will wear it and glorify my name._ "

She inhales sharply. "I will wear it."

I step away as her skin begins to shimmer. She unfastens my cloak and pulls it away just as the armor materializes over her body. It is made of some odd sort of metal, and is adorned with ornate designs along the sides of the breast and abdominal plates. The metal effigy of a howling wolf rests at the base of her throat. The pauldrons and greaves are lined with thick, smooth black fur.

" _Your armor will not break when you change, my Hunter. Now go. Good hunting._ " The spirit disappears.

Lydia returns neither my cloak nor my dagger to me, and I do not ask for them. We stand there in the grotto of the Bloodmoon and watch the pyre until the fire burns out, until nothing but bones and ashes remain.

 

* * *

 

_3 Sun's Height, 4E202_

 

I give Lydia a bulging pouch of coins: the blood money paid to the Dark Brotherhood, to me, to end her life. She clutches it in her armored fist, and stands facing Lake Ilinalta.

We quickly left Falkreath after delivering Sinding's head and receiving the payment. I worry that The Night Mother will take offense to what we have done, but this would not be the first time in Brotherhood history that one victim has been sacrificed for another. And… to see her standing here, beautiful under the midday sun, alive and displeased with me, I think I would disobey a contract a thousand times more.

"I'm thinking of tossing it into the lake," she says with a scowl. "I'm also thinking of using it to buy a round of drinks for the Whiterun guard. And then another. I'll tell them it's all on the Dark Brotherhood."

"If that is what you want," I reply quietly.

"But you know I can't set foot in Whiterun. Everyone thinks I'm dead." The Septims clink between her fingers. "And now Falkreath, where a werewolf with my face was killed by the Dark Brotherhood." She huffs. "I wonder where I'll die next."

"Come with me to Riften," I say tensely. "We have been… hunting rogue dragons."

"Riften…" she muses aloud. "I was left there, you know. I was raised in that hellhole of an orphanage, under this awful hag named Grelod. She was killed a year ago…"

"I… know," I say, nervous.

"Was that you who did it?"

I steady myself with a breath. "Yes."

"That day I found you sleeping under the Gildergreen," she says without ever taking her eyes from the lake, "I remember thinking you were some sort of beautiful, law-breaking tree spirit. Did you… kill anyone on that day?"

I could tell what is technically the truth, as I had killed the Emperor three days before and was only in Whiterun to secure the payment… but… But it was by my dishonesty that I lost her the first time. "Not on that day, no… I was there only to receive payment for a contract completed three days before."

Her voice is flat. "And who did you kill?"

"Ah… the…" I swallow thickly. "The Emperor."

"That was… that was  _you_?" She finally looks at me, and it is with a combination of astonishment and disgust.

"I was not made Listener for… well… for nothing." She backs away from me at this comment, but I take her wrist before she can put any more distance between us. "Wait, ah…" I pull her close. "Please stay." I feel her breath on my cheeks. "Please."

We stay like this for a moment. "Tell me something," she finally snaps. "Tell me how you can so easily kill innocent people."

I still refuse to release her wrist. "No one is innocent, Lydia."

"Someone who isn't attacking you? Someone just going about their business?" She gives me a hard stare. "How can you kill  _children_?"

"Gold," I reply in a flat tone. "For some it is religious fanaticism, but that is not so for me. It was just…" I think back to that day when I awoke to Astrid standing over me, as angry as I was fearful, "it was a job offer that I could not refuse. And what I do is only a manifestation of the evil in others; an effect, not a cause. Even your beloved Jarl Balgruuf has personally enlisted our services  _twice_." I watch her jaw drop in disbelief. "And on the subject of killing children, I have little to say, as I have never done it. Even I have my limits."

"But I… have." Her voice cracks.

I move in closer and take her face into my hands, so that I have her full attention. "And now you must live with that fact. You must carry it with you to the end of your days. But…" I smooth an errant lock of her black hair, "It would be a greater disservice to that child, I think, were you to give up on this life while you still might balance your deeds with acts of good. I can say little of forgiveness or redemption, as that is between you and the gods, but your actions are what speak most clearly of your remorse."

"That won't bring the child back." She searches my eyes with her own. We are so close…

"No, but… Your guilt was strong enough that you were able even to fight back against the whims of that cursed ring. You channeled the anger it brought you and eventually managed to lift its curse, and now you are more in control than ever. With that, you have begun your penance."

She surprises me by pulling me against her armored breast. The metal is cold and hard, but I think I would stay there for an eternity so long as she is the person beneath it. "One of the guards you killed, Svenja, she had a son. Hroar. Kid always had a… well a weird talent for magic." She pauses for a moment. "For the both of us… I want to use this money to get him out of Riften and board him at the College of Winterhold."

"I will see it done," I promise her. "And I will ensure that he has a comfortable life." We stand in silence for a brief moment, until our own child awakes and begins to flutter. I make a sound of surprise when I feel it, which causes Lydia to look at me questioningly. I give her a small smile. "She dances about."

"She?" Lydia looks down to my belly, which seems to grow just a little more with each passing day. Tentatively, she removes both her gloves and drops them to the grass. "Can I…?"

I take both her hands. "Yes."

After a moment, with her hands splayed over where the child grows, she smiles with disbelief. "I feel it." She gives a small shake of her head. "A blessing of Kyne. Even  _I_  can feel her magic, you know. But why did she do it? And why now?"

"A reason, I think. A tangible one," I reply. "Her existence is living proof of my… capacity to love… even despite all that I have done. I believe she is to be my reason for protecting this world."

"It's an effective tactic, you know. Mothers have been known to spit even at the gods for their children. Still, her timing isn't so great." She kneels and presses her ear just above my navel. " _Hi_ ," she whispers against the swell, and all the rest of me fills with some tight emotion. "I hope you'll have it better."

"Will you stay, Lydia?" I ask her before I can stop myself. "Will you?"

She is silent for a moment. "We have a lot to go through. I don't think I'll ever forgive you for the mess you've made of my life, but…" she sighs in somber resignation, "if something were to happen to you… I would probably regret it."

I close my eyes and hold her tightly, and in my mind I dwell on this moment alone. Yes, we have so very much to go through. Too much.

But right now, even if only briefly, this… is enough.

 

* * *

 

_Author's Note:_

 

_1\. Just in case this issue arises: I'm_ _not_ _saying that murder's all good so long as you're sorry. I'm just saying that the crime is worsened when the perpetrator tries to cop out. After all, this is not a story about forgiveness, it's about penance. No character in this story is an archetypically "good" person… but neither are they completely bad._

_2\. Werewolves are way more awesome than vampires in this game. I just wish Bethesda had included everything that they introduced with the Bloodmoon DLC, way back in Morrowind. That thing about hereditary werewolves is accurate. The only thing that I added was the doubling of their size. Sorry if that seems Mary-Sue-esque… I definitely won't let it be that way. I just thought it was kind of cool._

_3\. Lydia is not suddenly a worshipper of Hircine. It's just that her options are kind of limited at this point, considering her position._

_4\. Wolf armor is a gift from Hircine in my story. I honestly find it kind of ridiculous that the Companions wear it, especially since they're so insistently hush-hush about their lycanthropy. Why try to hide it while you're wearing a set of armor that basically screams it? That's stupid. So yeah, that armor set's been reassigned._


	16. A Night to Remember

**Chapter 16: A Night to Remember**

 

_6 Sun's Height, 4E202_

 

"Never gets old," Lydia mutters just as the dragon's soul seeps fully beneath my skin.

"It does, in a way," I reply as quietly as my Thu'um allows while I readjust my cloak. She had been kind enough to wash it before returning it to me, although the bloodstains could not have been removed without magic. I look up at the monstrous skeleton, from which Leon has begun to harvest fragments. "Every soul immerses me in a lifetime of memories and knowledge, most of which are too cloudy to understand fully. I find it… frustrating."

A cold mountain wind pulls at her hair and I must resist the urge to reach out and touch it. She had left our last embrace two days ago with little else to say, and since then has been far from welcoming. I know I should not expect much more, given our… complex circumstances. "Your voice isn't all… I don't know… low and dragon-like, as before."

"No?" I touch my throat, never having realized it. She walks toward our horses and hastily-dropped rucksacks, and I follow. "Perhaps I have grown more accustomed to it."

She bends to gather our things and I assist her. "Why's your brother taking pieces from it?"

I briefly look back at Leon, his arm still in a sling, as he climbs the dragon's spinal column. "He has been doing this for the past month at least, saying he wants them for research or some such thing. But truthfully? I think he wants keepsakes."

She shakes her head. "Imperials are so… eccentric." She tries to load a backpack onto her horse, but it skitters away from her, nervous. She growls. "Damn these things! I wasn't planning on eating you, but now you're making me want to."

An image—a memory—comes to mind, one in which she spoke softly to her horse as she took it to water. It was the day I had flown Rorikstead in a rage and nearly sent Lydia's horse into the ground with exhaustion. I approach and touch her arm. It is the first time in two days that I have made any sort of physical contact with her, and I feel it just as much as she does, as is evidenced by the sharp inhale through her nose.

"I think it sees the wolf," I say quietly. "Your entire countenance is… well… predatory."

She drops her bag to the ground, frustrated. "I don't need  _the Listener_  to be telling me anything about being predatory." She pulls away, careful not to look back at me, and kicks up a cloud of dry dirt in the direction of her quivering horse. "Come here, you bastard!"

My own anger boils. Constantly I am driven between sorrow and rage, and all because of this woman. I know my guilt. I admit to it. But even I can only take so much. "Lydia!" I bark, and she turns to me with a scowl. "That is quite enough."

From the corner of my eye I see Ungolim gather the horses around himself and work to calm them down.

"Quite enough?" She repeats almost mockingly, as she approaches me and rears up to her full height.

"Yes." I look her in the eye and I do not waver. I tired of my submissive behavior with her after a single day. It is simply not within my nature to tolerate such inclinations. "Reign in your temper and stop acting so unseemly. It does nothing positive for you."

She stares defiantly at me for a moment longer, and then huffs, and then closes her eyes and dips her chin. "I know," she acquiesces, much to my pleasant surprise. "I know. I'm… trying. It just gets out of hand sometimes and the smallest things can start it. At least I've stopped transforming every time I get pissed." She looks down at Hircine's Ring. "I… don't actually want to be so angry."

"It will get better," I say much more gently, and as I reach a tentative hand toward her own.

She snatches it away and steps back. For a long moment, she gives me a hard and silent stare. "Stop doing that."

All at once, I am flooded with tight heartache, though I do not let her see it on my face. Now instead I must ball that same hand into a fist. "As you wish."

Her fingers flex and she looks vaguely disappointed. Had she been expecting an argument of some kind? "Yeah, well… good." She scowls at her own awkward phrasing and picks up both her bag and mine, which she then carries over to Ungolim and the now-assuaged horses.

Leon approaches from behind and lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. He watches Lydia from alongside me. "Only so much can be said in a few days."

"I know." I lay my hand over his and decide it better to change the subject. "Are we nearing Helgen?"

He pulls a map out from beneath his cloak. "I think so, yes. We will soon reach the beginnings of a pass that will help us to avoid it. It is a shepherd's path, perhaps, but it likely will have fallen into disuse since Helgen was destroyed."

"It is still the better option," I reply after we approach our horses and mount them. "The ruins must be overrun with bandits, if indeed there are any ruins to be had." My eye strays continuously to Lydia, who still has not mounted her own horse but instead stares at it in distaste, her arms crossed.

She answers my question before I can ask it. "I'm going to run ahead." She gives me one final look and then breaks into a full sprint toward a somewhat distant patch of trees, transforming as she runs.

I watch with a kind of morbid fascination the way she changes from two legs to four, her body lengthening and growing and sprouting claws and black fur. And then, just as soon as the terrifying wolf appears, it quickly disappears behind shady foliage. To think that such a creature would be  _Lydia_ … I cannot stop the shiver that runs down my spine. It is too jarring.

Ungolim ties Lydia's horse to his own, and we three then take off at a good trot. I bite the inside of my lip and stare hard at the road ahead. Without the distraction of her presence, I find it much easier to think, though my thoughts are far from comforting.  _She is the creature_. She is the one who managed to gore Pheletes and even to slay Babette, and who knows how many others? By all normal protocols, she should be either recruited or killed.

I almost laugh at the idea, as neither option will suffice here. She would take her own life, I think, before she would bow to the Listener. Moreover, I found myself unable to kill her even before I truly began to… feel the way that I do about her. Certainly I cannot do it now. And besides this, I have already broken a contract against her, for her sake. I do not regret this—indeed, I would do it again if necessary—but I know that there must be consequences. Even for the Listener, there  _must_  be consequences, though I know not what they are.

I cannot simply hide her away: first, she would never comply to such a suggestion, and second, I know that the Brotherhood spies in the Rift would inevitably spot her, especially should she enter Riften. While it is true that only I and my companions know of the connection between my supposedly-deceased housecarl and the creature, I know that seeing her alive again will create inevitable suspicion. The evidence against her is piled too high, as would be obvious to any of my Brothers, should they give the matter a moment of thought.

So… now I can only wonder how long  _Fortuna_  will see it fit to favor me.

"Your unease runs deep," Leon says evenly, though with enough volume to be audible over the sound of our horses' hooves against the road.

"I had hoped it would not be so obvious." I scan the horizon for the beginnings of the shepherd's path around Helgen.

"Fascinating times these are, no?" He speaks with a grim sort of humor. "One surprise after another. Now you have found your strange lover again, now you fear you will lose her again." He raises a brow at me. "And you do take some interesting risks, Mara."

"Would you expect aught else of me?" I reply. "I know the risk. She will not join us, and I cannot kill her. I know."

"Is it not the same with me?"

I furrow my brow. "The same?"

"I know the identity of the Listener and her Silencer, as well as whatever correspondence you both will discuss so readily in front of me. I am privy to far more than an outsider should know, and yet, no one has taken issue." He pauses, briefly, to think. "True, I have not killed any Dark Brothers, but my knowledge is certainly enough to damn me."

I almost laugh. "Truthfully I think you would make a terrible assassin." He gives me a pointed look. "Do not misunderstand me, I know full well that you are deadly in combat… but you are not fit to stab someone in the dark. No, this is simply another matter that I have left undiscussed with the… remainder of the Black Hand."

"Undiscussed?" His reply is quizzical. "A lie by omission… or a tacit agreement?"

"A little of both, I think."

"Is that wise?"

"Truly…" I huff, "I would rather not face the opposite. I should be grateful to Lydia, after a sense, in that the chaos she spread all over our network seemed to distract the Dark Brotherhood from your presence. Should someone eventually ask me… well, perhaps I will have a flash of brilliance."

"A fine plan," he teases, though not with any intended hurt. "Since when has my dear sister begun to neglect all her finely-detailed schemes? This is unlike you."

"Since my life became some mad stage show for the gods," I grumble. "There is little use in planning when each and every one of them wants his grip on my soul." I glance down at my belly. Briefly, I wonder how she can sleep on horseback. What a luxury that must be.

"Would you rather have gone mad, as before?"

"Gods,  _no_ ," I shudder at the thought. "That is a fate worse than death."

"Then there is some good to their interference, perhaps. We and our House now know the gift of a lucid mind." He speaks in a gentle sort of tone. "And you are lucid enough, I think, to preserve your ill-tempered werewolf."

"At the risk of my authority over the Dark Brotherhood," I reply gravely. "Which she would have me renounce, in any case… But… it is not so simple as that. Moreover, I… I  _am_  the Listener. The first in many, many years. The Dark Brotherhood is as much my charge as it is my own Empire, my creation. It was my work that rebuilt it."

"You would not renounce your post." His reply is even, non-judgemental.

I take a breath. "No, I would not."

" _Domina_ , if I may…" Ungolim finally speaks. I give my assent. "Our Family  _will_  demand reparations. The old Tenets do specify a blood price, but it seems to have become more fashionable to demand an unpaid kill. If she fulfills a contract or two for us, then… perhaps…"

"No," I say with finality. "She would beg me to kill her instead."

"Which cannot be done."

"Which  _will not_  be done. Not while I still have breath in my lungs. Yes… she killed members of the Family. That Babette and Pheletes are dead burns me through," I say through gritted teeth, "but… I cannot endure Lydia's death for a second time."

Silence comes over us then, and after about half an hour we veer on to an overgrown shepherd's path, just off the road. We are not long on this path before we hear Lydia's roar, close by. I look all about us, but it is impossible to see far through the thicket of pine trees. Then a glint, just in the corner of my eye.

I duck, mere fractions of a second before a silver sword sails through where my head had been and buries itself in an adjacent tree. " _Ecastor!_ "

An armless, poorly-armored body flies out from the trees next. Then a werewolf bursts out and on to the path…

But it is not Lydia.

Through it is smaller, it is still fearsome. It crouches as if to pounce and makes its predatory approach, growling. Fires burst into my palms. "Peace, wolf," I attempt. "We have no business with you."

It leaps just as I cast a wall of flame, burning it badly and causing it to yelp like some injured dog. A bolt from Leon sends it flying back. It hits a tree and groans in a way that is almost human. Then it laughs that odd wolf-laugh, as Lydia does. " _Thought you looked too clean to be Silver Hand._ "

"Where is Lydia?" I demand.

It clutches its torso, apparently in pain. " _O' high and mighty pack leader?_ " It motions with a paw. " _She's_ —"

" _Right here_." Lydia's footsteps and wolf-voice boom out through the trees just before her hulking form appears. She drops a trio of bodies to the ground, all of them with their chests torn open, and her eyes find me immediately. Her black fur glistens from numerous cuts. " _Silver weapons_ ," she explains, " _they won't close or heal without magic_ …  _or_ a lot  _more hearts._ "

"Then…" I raise my palm, already glowing with healing light. "Come here."

There is a long, anticipatory pause before Lydia finally moves toward me. She takes her time in staring at me first, her great glowing eyes filled with some cryptic emotion… uncertainty, perhaps distrust. Self-doubt, maybe. When after her long look she takes a step toward me, my horse skitters away of its own volition, afraid of her. She growls.

I sigh and dismount, though not without a small amount of discomfort: as my body grows heavier, so too does the burden of everyday tasks. "Come, now," I say again as I approach the hulking wolf. "Before you bleed out."

She says nothing, but crouches low so that I can work. The cuts are extensive and somewhat difficult to see clearly underneath her fur, but they seem largely superficial. I watch as my magic works its way beneath her skin, knitting it back together, making it whole again. From the corner of her eye, she watches me do this.

" _If you have magic to spare, I'd be grateful_ ," says the other, smaller wolf. It has not moved from the base of the tree.

"Ungolim." My Silencer, needing no further direction, dismounts his horse and approaches the other wolf.

"What happened to you?" I ask her when I pause to wipe sweat from my brow. Though it is of course worthwhile… this is still rather strenuous work.

" _Silver Hand ambushed Aela over there_ ," Lydia nods in the direction of the other wolf. " _She howled for help and I heard it, so I helped. There were just a lot of them, I guess._ "

"Silver Hand?" I move to her other side.

" _Werewolf hunters_ ," the other wolf, Aela, fills in. " _They have a vendetta against the Companions_."

_Ah_. This is the famed Aela the Huntress, of the Whiterun Companions. I know of this group, even if I have never spoken with them directly… and for good reason, it would seem: I always did think it strange that the whole vicinity of Jorrvaskr stinks like an otherworld. "All the Companions are werewolves?"

" _Just the higher-ups._ "

Aela groans, then begins to shrink as she returns to her human form. From underneath the fur, teeth, and claws, a woman of some remarkable beauty emerges, naked as the day she was born. She seems quite unfazed by this, however, and after a moment begins to pull clothing from a small pack that had been strapped to her leg. Ungolim resumes healing her injuries with an extra measure of poorly-concealed hesitance.

" _Do you have to stare like that?_ " Lydia growls, her muzzle pressed just beneath my palm.

I heal the last of the cuts. "Pardon me, I was merely curious."

"And why shouldn't she be?" Aela the Huntress stands and stretches, then pulls a shirt over her head. "Plenty of people in Whiterun would pay good money to see what you just saw." Lydia bares her teeth in response, though I myself am left at a loss for what to say. "Oh, don't be so uptight. I won't touch her." She runs her fingers through her hair, then pauses and merely stares at me for a long moment. "I'm starting to see a pattern here, Lydia. It's always red hair for you, isn't it?"

" _Enough!_ " The great wolf warns.

"Relax, will you? You'll see it's true if you just think about it for a minute—"

" _Go home, Aela. Don't make me regret saving your skin_."

Aela the Huntress shakes her head, perhaps amused, perhaps disappointed. "Fine. I see finding your wild side still hasn't pulled that stick out of your ass. Little wonder he made you Chief. In any case…" she shrugs and begins to walk away from us, "it was nice seeing you again, I guess. Good to know you're not dead." She disappears into the woods after a few moments.

I remember I had overheard, in that conversation between Lydia and Klimmek, just before I had a fit of the madness, that Lydia had once bedded Aela the Huntress. I wonder if, beneath her words, that woman had intended some additional message. Her tone sounded so… resigned.

Just then, Lydia rears up to her full height. " _I'll keep going and find you when you make camp_."

"Wha—wait!" I call to her before she can run off again. "What if those werewolf hunters attack again? We will not be able to help you."

She gives me a long look. " _I've been having random bouts with them for weeks. I'll be fine_."

"Just…" I pull one of Leon's odd necklaces from my satchel. "Take this. We all carry them. Squeeze it and think of me, and I will be able to find you." Then I add: "If you need help."

She nods after another pause and lets me tie it around her massive wrist. "' _Till later, then_." She takes off again, disappearing behind the foliage.

 

* * *

 

_12 Sun's Height, 4E202_

 

"People of Riften!" A man calls out over the noise of the tavern. I close my eyes, my head already aching from the noise of my drunken brother. "Heed my words: The return of the dragons is not mere coincidence! This is a sign, a sign that Lady Mara is displeased with your constant inebriation. Put down your flagons and—"

"Lady Mara!" Leon laughs, far too loudly. "Mara,  _Marella_ ,  _mihi dice_ …  _Displicetne te ebrietas meae?_ "

"No. Stop, now. It is not the time for such jokes." I massage my temples and consider going to bed. I watch Ungolim for a moment, who tries to appear perfectly sober in my presence, though I know that he has already fallen to my brother's goading. Whatever their relationship might be—and, truly, I could not say for certain, as I neither care to know, nor have any desire to ask—it seems that Leon has found a way past Ungolim's judgement, even to the point of convincing him to match my brother flask for flask.

I regret ever telling our strange group to relax for the night, now.

"And you?" I turn to Lydia, who has just lit her pipe. "Are you just as lost as they?"

"Not even close." She gestures to her mug of ale. "My body's undergone a lot of changes since the wolf awoke. I don't think I  _can_  get drunk anymore. Or at least, not without a lot of effort. It's a shame, since I can't sleep peacefully anymore… getting piss-drunk would probably help." She takes another long drink, despite her words.

Briefly, I watch as one of the Argonian proprietors of the inn escorts the bold priest of Mara from the building. These troubled times, I can imagine, have not been good for the teachings of the Temple of Mara, thus the man's attempt to turn the city from its sins.

"'t sounds like ya'd make a good challenge, 'n." A strangely-dressed man, clearly intoxicated, slams a large glass bottle down on the table. My senses flare in warning: something here is not… right. I squint at him, guarded. Something is off. "What'dya say? A few drinks, a few laughs, 'n a contest. Yeah?"

" _Leon_ ," I shake my brother's arm and speak to him, lowly as I am able, in  _Latine_ , "Leon, pay attention."

He looks at the man, furrows his brow in some sad attempt at scrutinizing him, and then just laughs. " _Mentula vafra!_   _Fortuna_  either smiles or frowns. I always wonder."

"No way," Lydia exhales a small cloud of smoke. "Move along. You'll lose."

The strange man laughs. "I got a spirit 'ta make  _spirits_  drunk! A challenge fer 'ya, 'lright." He pours himself a cup and knocks it back in a single, swift motion, slamming his cup back down on the wooden table. "See… nothin' harmful. M'lords? M'lady?" He pours a finger of the spirit into each of Leon's and Ungolim's cups, and then into an empty cup next to Lydia's hand.

"Bad idea," I say to Lydia, who alone might listen to me. "Something is wrong."

"What's wrong 's yer mood, ma'am!" He reaches for my teacup. "How 'bout a—"

" _No_." Lydia covers my cup with her hand. "Not her. I accept your challenge. You'll lose no matter what, but keep her out of it."

Frustrated and fed up, I stand and gather up my cloak. "This is foolish and I will have no part in it. I warned you. I will take no responsibility for your bodies when they find you all dead in a ditch." I storm away from the table and up the stairs to my room.

 

* * *

 

_13 Sun's Height, 4E202_

 

An insistent fist pounds on my door. "Ma'am!"

More pounding.

I open my eyes and close them again, willing the noise away, hoping to simply ignore it.

The pounding grows louder. "Ma'am! Please! We found your wife on the temple floor this morning!"

That gains my attention. I sit up, bewildered and squinting in the morning light.  _Wife?_  Growing irritated, both from my rude awakening and the returning memories of the night previous, I pull my cloak over my shoulders and open the door. "You have the wrong person," I snap at her. "Now leave me in peace." I make to shut the door in her face.

The meress, a Dunmer and apparently a priestess at the Temple of Mara, slaps her hand on the wood to stop me from shutting it completely. "You're the red-haired Dragonborn. I have the right person. Go and retrieve your disaster of a wife. She's still on the temple floor where she dropped last night… that there's still much of a floor left surprises me. How could you let her get so out of hand?"

"Are you mad?" I swing the door open again and stare at her with indignance. "You would speak this way with me? And I do not have a—"

"I would. I  _am_. And  _you're_  coming to the temple,  _now_ , to get her off our floor." She tugs on my cloak.

I grab her wrist, now furious. "You will have some  _respect_ , priestess. Dragonborn or no, I will not be spoken to like this. I will not go anywhere with you.  _I have no wife_. Now begone, or become a pile of ash."

She stops, then, and looks at me with something akin to pity. "A disagreement is no reason to deny your marriage entirely. I'm sure you can both work it out. Now, come."

Magic crackles over my fists. "You must be deaf or stupid if you must make me repeat myself—"

"Lydia," the meress says, effectively halting all that I was about to say, "burst in late last night, drunk, destroying our furniture and shouting about her wife, the Dragonborn. Whatever quarrel you both might have, my temple is  _not_  hers to destroy, nor yours to neglect. I don't care if you're Akatosh himself, I'm still telling you to go and get her off our floor. It's your responsibility—"

Shock and unease bloom in my breast, and I take off down the stairs before the priestess can finish lecturing me. I burst out the doors to the inn, the priestess hot on my heels, and storm over to the Temple of Mara.

She is the first thing that I see when I slam the temple doors open: asleep, face-first on the temple floor and surrounded by broken furniture. My unease very quickly changes into anger. " _Lydia!_ " I stand over her and give her shoulder an ungentle nudge with my boot. "Wake up, you fool. I knew this would happen. By the gods, I said it so.  _Wake up!_ "

Lydia's open, though slowly, and she groans. "Sweet Talos." Her hands come up to grip her head. "My head… ugh, stop shouting, will you?"

I do not lower my voice. "Do you know where you are?"

"No." She does not move from her huddled position on the floor.

"The Temple of Mara. On the floor. Get up and look around you. Look what you have done." When she merely groans in response, and does not move, I push her again with my boot. "Get  _up_."

"Alright,  _alright_ , by the gods. Don't ever change, woman." She rises to unsteady hands and knees and looks all around us. "Oh… wow… no joke."

"Indeed." I cross my arms and glare at her. "Where are Leon and Ungolim?"

She moves to a sitting position and rubs her eyes, weary and looking ill. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No."

"Not the  _slightest_  idea?"

"No."

" _Inepti!_ " I turn from her to look out the window and gauge the time. "Do you remember anything at all?"

"Can I have some water?" Her head is in her hands again.

"You will have plenty when I toss you into the canal."

"Oh you're not going  _anywhere_  until all this is sorted out," the priestess interjects. "You're going to clean up this mess and pay for new furniture. And that's just the beginning."

Now I turn on her. "If you think—"

"Hold on. She's right." Lydia looks around again, rubbing her eyes. "I should clean this up and… I'm sorry… for the mess."

"As you should be, but… Lady Mara will forgive the truly repentant. This means both to her and to your loved ones." The priestess looks between us both. "I would be happy to provide counseling if—"

"You misunderstand," I cut her off. "Really, you misunderstand. We are  _not_  married."

" _Married?_ " Lydia groans, looking sick all over again.

"Obviously you both have a lot to work out. I say a little manual labor is an excellent place to start."

The priestess picks up a broom and tosses it at Lydia who, thanks to her disorientation, misses it entirely. Instead it smacks her squarely on the crown of her head. "Damn! What in Oblivion—"

"Foul language has  _no_  place in my temple! Now pick up that broom and get to work." Here in her element, even I will admit that the priestess looks vaguely terrifying. Even so, she must be… well… either brave or stupid to talk to us like this, barring even Lydia's lycanthropy and my Thu'um.

Lydia wobbles to her feet, broom in hand, and looks all around with an expression I can only classify as ' _Why me?_ '. "Right, then," I say, wanting nothing more to do with this situation or this conversation, "I should go find Leon and Ungolim, or whatever remains of them."

"Not so fast." The priestess thrusts a cleaning rag into my hands. "I said you  _both_  have problems to work on. You're not going anywhere."

I stare at the meress. Lydia sniggers. "You do… realize…" I begin, and with a titanic effort to contain my fury, "that there is absolutely  _nothing_  you can do to stop me from leaving."

She situates herself just in front of the temple doors and crosses her arms in defiant authority. "The gods watch your every move with a special eye, Dragonborn."

I raise a brow. "If you think  _that_  will deter me—"

"And I do see you're with child, thus you receive the less strenuous portion of the work. Wipe all the debris and wood dust off the surfaces that  _aren't_  broken or cracked. We'll discuss replacements when Briehl calls us for breakfast." When still neither of us move, she claps her hands. "This isn't the Hall of the Dead, ladies! Get moving!"

 

* * *

 

"This is humiliating."

Standing on the temple steps, a wad of religious pamphlets in my hand, I note that the sun is high in the sky and that Leon and Ungolim have yet to appear. My hands and arms feel grimy and my robes are coated with dust, and my temper is just foul enough to match. Dinya Balu—that is the name of the damnable priestess, Sithis take her—is at our backs, arms still crossed, still expectant and demanding.

"This is penance, child. A labor of love. As love is Mara's domain, it is only fitting that the both of you should spread it to those who need it most. And it will of course help the both of you in the process—"

"I said  _we are not married!_ " I turn and shout at her. "I do not even  _worship_  Mara!"

" _No kidding_ ," Lydia mutters.

I turn to glare at her too, but can hold it for no longer than a moment. Her expression says many things, all conflicting and complicated and confusing… I close my eyes and take a deep breath.  _Yes, Lydia, I realize you were referencing Sithis_.  _Yes, I realize you want to stay just as much as you want to leave_.  _Yes, I can see that you are troubled…_   _I am morally ambivalent, not daft._

The priestess keeps prattling on about labors of love, but I stop listening.

Lydia and I have this way of looking at one another—it is an affirming gesture during good times, an accusation during bad—that never fails to disrupt whatever argument I may have been pursuing. It does not destroy or trump my thoughts, it merely  _disrupts_.

Here, now, I am halted by the accusation so apparent in her expression. I could return it, of course, as it was not  _I_  who was found hungover and shamed on the temple floor this morning… but there would be little benefit in this. "Come," I acquiesce, finally weary, "it will be over the sooner we begin."

She walks close to my side. "… Thanks."

I give her a look, but do not stop walking. That was one response I would not have expected from her.

"I know you could've left," she continues. "I figured you'd argue, but I didn't think you'd actually stay and help. I feel bad enough as it is… so… I appreciate it."

"Oh, well…" My fingers fidget with the pamphlets. I feel like a girl again, unsure and hopeful. "Yes, though not for lack of trying."

We arrive at the market and begin distributing the temple's absurd propaganda.

"Do you know why she thinks we are married?" I say while we work.

"No idea," is her somewhat uncomfortable reply.

I huff. "She says you were shouting it last night while you were destroying the temple."

"Oh." Lydia's blush always begins with her ears, and then her cheeks. I watch it creep over her features, though whether she blushes out of shyness or shame is unknown to me. She turns from me for a moment to speak with a smiling old woman.

The pressure in my chest grows painful. "Nothing to say on the matter?"

"N-No," she responds when again she turns back to me. "I mean… I don't…" Her fists clench in frustration. "No. Nothing to say." She stalks off to the other side of the market.

I suppose I could not have expected any other reaction. In truth I find it unlikely that such a conversation should  _ever_  pass between us, much less now.

The child chooses, at this moment, to awake and begin her fluttering and kicking. It comes as a shock, every time, even though my belly is yet rather small. It is small, though the roundness is unmistakable. And this… what of  _this_? I watch Lydia from the corner of my vision, even as I try to rid myself of the last of the pamphlets. What fresh hell awaits us, I wonder, when the child comes in earnest?

I rest my hand on my belly, and once more, silently curse all the gods.

_A child._  I grit my teeth, unable to stop myself.  _What a stupid, useless method for humbling me_.

And then the thought makes me feel guilty, and with my hand still pressed just lightly against where the baby kicks, I whisper to it: "Though it is no fault of your own."

Lydia looks at me then, her expression guarded, but searching. I stare back, surprised. Did she hear me say that? Out of context, my words should have meant only very little to her, but that she actually  _heard_  them from across a noisy, crowded market… The wolf's hearing is indeed much sharper than I had assumed.

Growing uncomfortable, I turn away from her and thrust a pamphlet into a pair of gloved hands. "Blessings of Mara," I mutter and make to move on, but one of those hands takes a firm hold on my arm.

I look up. He is tall, all clad in steel armor. Though his hair is more like copper than the fiery hues of a true Aestus, the crest carved into his breastplate says enough. " _Salve_ , cousin," he says with intended threat.

My eyes flicker down to the hand on my arm, then back to his face. I do not recognize him, so I can only assume that he hails from some distant, less prestigious branch of our House. " _Salve_."

"You are surrounded and the guards are paid off. Just come quietly." His grip tightens, almost to the point of pain.

My response is a short, but condescending, laugh. "Cato must have paid you a small fortune. You chase your own death, cousin."

"We have Leon."

All my insides freeze. I look around the market: there are indeed a handful of armor-clad men spread about, watching me. Lydia watches us, tense. People mill about, oblivious. I breathe in through my nose and force my mind to quit its immediate urge to panic.  _No, calm_. Another breath.  _Think_. Lydia will not transform in the city, nor will she lash out with a weapon amid such a dense crowd of people.

Similarly, on my part, the crowd bars any use of either my magic or my Thu'um. I cannot fight them, not here… and not until I see Leon. "Alive?" I ask with a sneer.

He begins to walk toward the city gates, which forces me along as well. "A dead man makes a poor incentive."

I dare not look back to see if Lydia follows us, though I assume it so. I can only hope that none of them tries to harm her before we all leave the city, if indeed they know of her connection to me at all. If they are mercenaries worth the title, then they should have attempted some basic reconnaissance before attacking.

That question is answered, however, when she falls into step just behind me. She mutters: "They know. I heard." I can hear her growling: it is the wolf in her, surely, howling at the idea of submitting.

_Damn it_ … and if they are of my House… at least  _one_  of them must have detected her lycanthropy. It is very likely, then, that they have silver weapons.

But we are mages at heart; powerful mages, even among the branch families. Alone, Leon and I could defeat our captors, but Lydia, having no means to defend herself, might perish in the crossfire. And Ungolim… I can only hope he has somehow evaded capture. _Damn it_. I have grown far too careless.

My hands are tied with magical binds just as we exit the gates. "Do not try to fight," my nameless cousin warns. "We will kill her if you do."

The growling grows louder, more furious. " _Good luck_ ," she taunts in the voice of the wolf. Then comes the sound of metal on metal and a scuffle. I look back just in time to see another of my cousins, his hand crackling with magic, grip her about the neck. She gasps with pain and my heart clenches: one shock could paralyze her permanently.

"If Cato wants our estate," I spit, "it is of no consequence to me. He may spare me all this fanfare."

"I have heard of your willfulness, Amara Leone. But that you let it persist, despite your position, impresses me." We turn away from the road and begin to walk between the trees.

He is silent thereafter, despite my continued taunting. Lydia and I are led deeper into the woods, where the trees grow taller and thicker and the ground is coarse with stone and moss. Then, suddenly, we pass into a rocky clearing marked by a bubbling spring, in which more armored brutes await us.

But it is Cato, standing in the center with Leon bound and gagged at his feet, that surprises me most. A quick glance tells me that Leon's binds are magical, which leaves him effectively immobilized, but he is otherwise unharmed. Another glance tells me that Ungolim is nowhere to be found… which is either very good or… very bad.

"What in blazes are  _you_  doing in Skyrim?" I say with an incredulous sort of fury.

"You are polite as ever,  _Marella_. I came to see you for myself, of course, when it became obvious that you could not be located and brought to the Imperial City without unwanted difficulty. If you want something done right, as they say…" His dark eyes look me up and down. "Have you let yourself go or… are you with child?"

I grit my teeth. "What do you want?" For now, I have to keep him talking, at least until I can find a way to free myself and fight without risking either Leon or Lydia. I could use the Thu'um, but… still one of Cato's mercenaries might be able to harm my companions. I look all around: there are several guards, all well-armored, many of them sporting the Aestus crest. The clearing is well-lit and pervaded by our potent magic, thick and cloying, and unsuppressed in preparation for battle.

It is a battle that Lydia would not survive. Perhaps she knows this: from the corner of my eye I can still see her, her fists clenched and her body shaking with rage, still held by the neck.

"Oh, what a question. I would like my life back, for one. Some answers from those pretty lips of yours would also please me greatly. Some other items of business, as well, but we have time yet." He comes close to me and brushes his fingers against my cheek. "From the neck up, you look as beautiful as ever,  _delicia_."

I spit in his eye.

" _Don't fucking touch her!_ " Lydia struggles again, possessive and furious, just as Cato rears back with a curse, his hand on his face.

"Calm, Lydia!" I call to her without taking my eyes from Cato. "You risk us all if you struggle."

"Says she who spits on the man who holds her life in his hands." Cato levels his eyes with mine. "Do that again and I will have your wolf torn in half."

I scowl at him, but say nothing.

"Your silence makes you so much more pleasant, dear  _Marella_. But in this instance, I do need to talk to you. Most importantly, I must know all that you know about the curse, and what broke it. I assume you know about that." His finger brushes the skin of my neck.

"I broke it."

He laughs. "Of course you did. And the source?"

"The Patriarch, otherwise known as Sheogorath."

"Everyone came back saying the same thing. We all have you to thank, then, for the implosion of our House." He traces my collarbone.

"Are you yet mad, Cato? I gave our House the gift of a freed mind."

"You gave us  _bloodshed_ ,  _delicia_." His finger moves over my breast and all my insides twist in revulsion. "I lost a fortune and half an empire. Now I know for certain that this is because of you." He moves to my other breast. "But my reason for capturing you is not this."

"Clearly." He brushes my belly. All of me convulses with a combination of disgust and fury. As the binds negate my magic, I must resort to the Thu'um. I must find a way to immobilize both Cato and the brute with his hand on Lydia's neck. Lydia will probably attack my own captor as soon as she is free. But then… the magical crossfire…

I need to shield her somehow…

"I have laid claim to your mother's estate, of course. The infighting has made things complicated, but not impossible. I will have to kill you to ensure my claim, but as you can see, this will be done easily enough. Now of course I would have preferred to bring you home for this, but as always, you have proven difficult to pin down." His brow furrows. "This is odd magic for an Aestus child. What foolhardy mage found his way to that cold chasm of yours, I wonder."

" _Don't…_ " Lydia's eyes glow bright. She tries so hard to hold it in.

"Please, Lydia…" I plead with her.

"Please do!" He turns to her with a flourish. "You will never move again. This amuses me deeply,  _Marella_. It feels like compensation for all the embarrassment I suffered when you refused my proposal and fled to this backwater province. An Aestus comes to Skyrim and the uncivilized Nords make her a celebrity. They call you a dragon, or some such drivel. No, you are a spoilt and disruptive little brat and when I am finished here, I will find a way to drive our House mad again. Then all your damage to our fortune will be reversed."

"You  _are_  still mad." I swear if my jaw could drop to the ground, it would. "You must be. Either this or you are selfish to the point of stupidity. That must be the most stupid thing I have ever heard. Are you listening to yourself?"

Pain erupts all over one side of my head and stars burst across my vision. Some seconds must pass before I realize he has backhanded me and pushed me to my knees. "I will die a rich man. But  _Marella_ , you will die when I tear you open for all our kin here to see." He gives me a wicked smile and moves to press his rigid, bulging crotch against my face—

"I will feast  _on your heart!_ " A Dremora cuts one of the guards in half. Cato looks away from me.

" _IIZ SLEN NUS!_ " Cato falls backward, frozen solid.

The next few seconds are separate eternities in themselves. The great black werewolf springs up and lands on the man just behind me, crushing his whole head under her paw. Her claw cuts my binds in the same motion. Ungolim, clad in the black-and-red of the Dark Brotherhood and with a strange staff strapped to his back, springs from where Lydia had been, having slit her captor's throat, frees Leon, and buries his dagger in the throat of another man.

The whole clearing erupts, but still in slowed time.

I leap atop Lydia's back and cast a spell with a greater degree of potency than I should be capable of: it is a ward, and a powerful one. I watch with a kind of detached fascination the way my kinsmen's magic bounces away from it while Lydia's claws tear into their flesh.  _I should not be able to cast this spell_   _so effectively…_

But it holds. Lydia, who could not defend herself otherwise, is unharmed. Some of them do have silver weapons, as I predicted, but I raise my other hand and burn them before they can reach her.

I look to the other side of the clearing and see Leon, the runes on both his arms free and visible, maintaining a shield of lightning against enemy magic while Ungolim fires arrows from beside him.

Eventually only Cato is left, still enclosed in his prison of ice. Lydia crouches low so that I can return my feet to the ground and look him over. Sweat drips from my brow, but I am far from exhausted. He stares up at me, completely immobile, angry and full of disbelief.

But I have only one thought, and thanks to it, I greet him with a dramatic sigh. "You should read more, cousin."

He looks confused. "Wha—" is all the noise he can make before I raise my hands and render him to ashes, the ice bubbling and hissing all around his deteriorating corpse.

"Read enough," I continue saying to the pile, "and you will see that you should never make speeches to hostages that you intend to kill. Kill them first,  _then_  talk. Never tempt  _Fortuna_  to send miracles at a crucial moment, close call though it was."

Of course the ashes cannot respond to my observation, but then again,  _I_  am not the dead one in this conversation.

"Oh  _Mara mea_ , forgive me." Leon envelops me in a hug. "I woke up in binds. They must have captured me last night but I… I do not remember."

"Are you alright,  _Domina_?" Ungolim pulls the mask from his face.

"Now, yes. We owe you our lives, Ungolim." I kiss both his cheeks after the Imperial fashion and he blushes. I note the odd staff again. "But tell me… how did you find us? And what is that staff?"

"Leon's necklace." He pulls it from underneath his armor, but his eyes are on Lydia.

She regards him with an equal intensity. " _It was still tied around my wrist. They didn't see me use it._ "

"The staff… well,  _Domina_ , you were right." He presents it to me almost sheepishly. "The Sanguine Rose."

" _Another_  Daedric Prince?" I take the staff. It is… rather beautiful.

"Sanguine himself," my Silencer affirms.

" _You mean_ you  _won the contest?_ " If a werewolf could make an expression of exasperation, I do believe that Lydia may have just achieved it.

I hold the staff up to the light. "Yes, well, I hope the three of you found your time with Sanguine worthwhile, because it will be the last time you may ever drink heavily in my company."

To my great satisfaction, no one tries to protest.

 

* * *

 

_15 Sun's Height, 4E202_

 

I was surprised when she came to sit with me by the fire, but not unpleasantly so. She just sat and talked with me, passing the minutes, the hours. She wanted me to tell her all that she had missed, all that she might need to know, and anything that might happen in the near future. I omit nothing: the blessing from the Greybeards, my time at the College of Winterhold, the search for an Elder Scroll, what I know of Alduin, the implosion of House Aestus in Cyrodiil, and… the complications posed by my Dark Brotherhood.

Her face darkens when I mention the latter subject. She  _will_  be seen, if she has not been seen already. The Black Hand will ask questions and I will be made to answer, to take responsibility. Eventually, however, Lydia asks me to stop talking about it. She does not wish to hear it, not right now.

I am driven to wonder if we will ever regain that sweetness we used to share. I do wonder.

After today, after this morning, when I sent a young boy named Hroar to pursue his dreams at the College of Winterhold, I began to wonder how many other children have seen worse fates at my hands, albeit indirectly. I began to think of my own child. I began to _think_.

"Can't believe I owe my life to one of your assassins," she says after a brief lull. Absentmindedly, she pokes at the fire with a stick. "It's funny how life turns you around like that."

"It is." The child is awake and dancing, as she always does when Lydia and I are near to one another. While I doubt that there is any real correlation, still I find it a fitting coincidence. Perhaps she can feel the increase in my heart rate and chooses to respond accordingly.

"Should've started fighting a lot sooner. I feel like a fool."

I know it has been bothering her, but still it surprises me that she has decided finally to share her thoughts with me. I close my eyes, briefly.  _Small steps_. "You could not have defended yourself from their magic. Fighting too soon would have paralyzed you permanently."

She huffs, prideful but resigned. "That was smart, jumping on my back. Stupid, sure, but smart. I can't figure out how you're still able to move around like that." Her eyes gesture to my belly.

I hum in agreement. "She is small yet, but the more she grows, the more cumbersome she becomes. However… the world will not wait for her, so still I must act. All the excitement of these days never leaves me wanting for bursts of energy."

"Will you be good to her?" She asks very suddenly. "Will you raise her to be like…" She looks at Ungolim's tent, where he reclines and—wisely—pretends to ignore us.

Lydia and I share a long and heavy look. "If I survive…" I begin, unsure exactly of what to say. "If I…" How can I answer such a question? If indeed this is Lydia's child, then I think she would resist such a lifestyle from her first breath. "I had not thought of it." _Absolutely not_.  _No_.

"And if you don't… survive…" Her eyes flicker to and fro. "Who will… ah…"

Another long look. "Her other mother, I would hope. Her uncle." I look at Leon's tent. He is asleep, of course. "I hope she will know a family rather  _unlike_  the one I have known. Beyond this, I cannot say. I am trying, still, to come to terms with it. It is a responsibility I have never before considered, nor desired in earnest."

"Just… just don't give her up. Don't leave her on her own. Please." Lydia's eyes are focused firmly on her boots. Her clenched fists shake in her lap. "I know you didn't want this. Just don't…"

"Lydia." My voice is gentle, and gingerly, I rest a hand over one of her fists. "That warmth we knew between us… that was not an act. I am many things, yes, but I am not so cold or heartless. Really…"

Her hands unclench and turn my hand over so that her eyes might study it. I can not stop it, the way my heart beats so fast and with a kind of bittersweet pang. What is she thinking, I wonder, while she examines the very same hand that brought so much pain and joy into her life? Does she fight with herself? Does she try to tell herself to believe me when I say my feelings were—and  _are_ —genuine?

Does she believe that I regret hurting her?

"Good to know." After a moment, she startles somewhat and looks up. The low light of sunset makes it difficult for me to see far into the trees, but Lydia cranes her neck to sniff at the breeze. It is such a strange sight, however useful. "Someone approaching. Close. Silent, but I smell them."

_Muffled boots_. Lydia tenses, ready to fight, but I lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. There is little use, now, in hiding all my machinations from her. "Fafnir," I say to the long shadows.

He materializes before us, rather like a ghost. "Lis—" His eyes land on Lydia, and all at once he takes on a countenance of guarded suspicion. "Mistress."

Without a look, with nary a word, Lydia rises and stalks off into the trees. I fold my hands in my lap. My knuckles are white. "You bring news?"

"Yes." He moves closer to the fire and sits, with his legs folded underneath him, by my feet. His eyes, however, shift constantly in Lydia's direction, though neither of us can actually see her.

"What is it?"

"Mistress, we believe we have found Septimus Signus."

* * *

 

_Author's note:_

 

_1\. I've combined a few quests in this chapter: A Night to Remember, Spread the Love, and Rescue Mission… all of which have been revised for Brotherhood, of course. Really I could've given this chapter any of those three titles._

_2\. I have very little desire to explore the relationship between Lydia and Aela the Huntress to a great extent. I'm not building up to some kind of cat-fight (cat-dog-fight?) between Amara and Aela, as that really isn't Amara's style and seems like an unnecessary waste of plot. No, I included Aela in this chapter for four reasons: 1, to touch on Lydia's life before Amara; 2, to mention the thing about red hair (it amuses me); 3, to show that other werewolves do acknowledge Lydia as Chief; and 4, so that I could discuss how silver weapons will affect her. Beyond this, there will be no competition between Amara and Aela. That deal is… well… sealed, as it were._

_3\. The baby is_ _not_   _unnaturally aware of the outside world. That's an uncomfortable cliche in many stories that include both the supernatural and situations of pregnancy, and I refuse to include it here. The baby is only aware of what goes on inside the mother (heartbeat, pulse, hormones, etc.). It won't communicate beyond kicking (like any normal, real-world foetus), it won't cast unusual magic (that ward_ _was_   _Amara's, not the baby's), and it won't go werewolf in her womb because… umm… ouch. It won't be anything but a helpless baby until it's… not a baby? I guess?_

_4\. It wasn't my original intention to make Cato so… comic-book-villain-esque (the long-windedness, I mean), but I couldn't resist the idea when it came to me. I_ almost  _had Amara say something along the lines of: "Leave being a villain to the professionals." :P_


	17. Elder Knowledge, Part 2

**Chapter 17: Elder Knowledge, Part 2**

 

_15 Sun's Height 4E202_

 

"Mistress, we believe we have found Septimus Signus."

I stare off into the shadows. "Continue."

Fafnir clears his throat. "Our information comes from a letter intercepted by our contact in the College of Winterhold. It was a request for supplies and intended for the librarian, Urag Gro-Shub. It details certain peculiar activities in the northern ice fields, in the Sea of Ghosts. The letter was signed by one S. Signus."

"The ice fields…" I cup my chin in the palm of my hand. "No wonder he has proven so elusive. Good that even a mad scholar must fill his stomach. Does he provide an exact location?"

"He does, mistress. It is directly north of the College. The way must be traveled by boat."

"Then we shall make for Winterhold in the morning." I look him over and he studies me with just as much intensity. "We have some bread and meat left if you still need to eat," I offer.

He looks away again, into the shadows. I follow his gaze and can just barely see Lydia, leaning against a tree, watching us. "I think I'll continue on to Shor's Stone." He stands, makes to walk away, and then pauses. "… Listener…" He swallows, nervous and bold and suspicious. Lydia's eyes seem to luminesce ever so slightly— _or is it a trick of moonlight?_ —green and haunting, lovely and terrifying, as they fix on the bared face of the Listener. "I see your housecarl has returned… unscathed."

I rise to my feet, able to feel my pulse in my hands. My nerves feel overtaxed, all but burned away, yes. What a thrill this is, this sensation of indignance and danger. I think I should have shouted, perhaps burned this whole forest down, but no… no, I laugh. I laugh, right to his face. I reach into my satchel and pull out a short, black whip. "Indeed, Brother. Now remove your cuirass, turn, and kneel."

He hesitates, just for the briefest of seconds, caught somewhere between obedience and defiance. His eyes flash between myself and our hard-eyed spectator.

Yes, she will see this. Perhaps she  _must_  see this. Either way, I cannot avoid it. Any of it.

Then he does as I tell him and soon kneels facing away from me, his back bare and his nose in the dirt. "Forgive me… mistress."

The whip cracks across his flesh and leaves an ugly welt in its wake. "Little use, now, Brother. The deed is done."  _Crack_. He hisses in pain.

"Forgive me…"  _Crack_. "Listener."

"I left a standing order."  _Crack_. A sharp inhale.

_Crack_. "I failed you, Listener!" He cries out.  _Crack_.

Blood—just small, painful little droplets—spatters on my cheek.  _Crack_. "Will you fail me again?"

Lydia steps back into the circle of firelight, her eyes still just barely aglow. She makes some expression I cannot decipher, but in silence, her lips impart a message. She gives it no breath, no voice, but I see it all the same:  _Stop_.

_Crack_. "No, Listener!" I lash him one last time. Blood spatter flies upward: red raindrops in reverse. "Never… Listener…"

"Good." I toss the whip to the ground and watch him cough in the dirt, and all the while the very face of all my love and guilt stares from across the firepit. "Now clean yourself up and begone."

Fafnir disappears before I can even wipe his blood from my face. Only Lydia remains now, staring, perhaps disgusted, with the whole of reality grown opaque before us.  _I could not hide this from her forever_.

In her cell in Falkreath, when first I found her again, blessedly alive, she told me that she has been rendered evil. She said that the ravages of the beastblood drove her to commit atrocities, and thus, she is evil. Well… she is wrong. Her understanding of evil is misguided. Real evil is a matter of  _choice_ , and of choice, she had very little at the time. Her soul is blackened by foul deeds, yes, but still it is a soul driven to resist the conscious choice of all things  _bad_. She will always choose the lesser evil, the greater good.

She and I will always differ in this way. We will always see the world and our individual paths from vastly different perspectives. It is a simple fact, a bare and immutable fact. We can learn from each other, we can work together or we can fight, but we are not the same, and never will be.

_I am not entirely evil… but I am not entirely good, either._

Already she has said that she will never forgive me for what I have done… I say so be it, then: spectacles such as these cannot worsen things. I cannot go any lower than the very bottom.

Loving her does not change what I am, even if it does show me sides of myself I had never known: affectionate, playful, the warm and smiling lover, the guilty sinner, the nervous mother. These are her gifts to me, her lessons in compassion, with which she may indeed have rescued the world from my indifference.

I wonder how much of this can be said to her in the few seconds before she will walk away, shaken, doubting her choices and criticizing her own desires. I wonder, but still cannot form the words. So I just say: "Well?"

She searches my face. "I'm trying to picture the mask, the one where I can only see your eyes. For a long time I tried to imagine what kind of a face would be behind that mask. What kind of a hateful, ugly face."

When after a pregnant pause I do not respond, she continues: "But really, you're perfect for the Listener: too beautiful to make anyone suspicious, too ruthless and deadly to leave anyone feeling safe. Who… who was that woman I'd lay with and talk to at night, back then? The one that smiled?"

"The same woman who now stands before you, Lydia," I reply softly.

She comes closer, close enough that I could press my lips to hers if the divide still did not feel like the distance between heaven and earth. For the first time since I found her again, she smells of pine trees and ice, in the way I remember. Yes, pine trees and ice: such is the blood of a Nord down to the very marrow.

Such a funny thing to consider, that my whole heart aches for a nameless, clanless,  _comparatively_  penniless Nord. I, a patrician, an Imperial, a groomed and prideful Aestus mage, stand willfully under the judgment of this woman. I want her here, close.

"I bet you'll tell me it's nothing personal, that they all died. I watched Tobias burn alive. You'll say you didn't mean it. Right?"

Heaven and earth, we are so close.

"Something like that, yes." How else can I reply but with honesty? "He was not the target. I did not set out to kill him."

"All those men and women died because you were trying to shoot someone old and fat and rich. And you couldn't even do that right."

"Do you know why I missed that first shot, Lydia?" It is the whole of the distance between heaven and earth. So very far is the span of space. "Just as I was to release the bow, I looked at you."

But she backs away again. "I wish you'd stop looking."

I cannot stop. "And can  _you_  stop?"

Her stare is unwavering. "Not for lack of trying."

 

* * *

 

_19 Sun's Height, 4E202_

 

Ever the Nord, Lydia's eyes dart about with a strong and unconcealed distrust for her surroundings, despite that she followed us here, and despite that we gave her the option to stay at the Frozen Hearth Inn. That Nords generally distrust the College of Winterhold is no mere stereotype: it is a fact I see repeated again and again. Leave it to these ice-crusted farmers to distrust all that they do not understand.

Now that I think on it, given the educational standards of this province—or the complete lack thereof—I should be grateful that, at least, Lydia is able to read and write.

Savos Aren stands before me, arms crossed. "As before, Lady Aestus, only members of the College are allowed inside the Arcanaeum. Really we prefer that non-members be banned from all its grounds, and already we've made an exception for you." He looks Lydia up and down. "I'm afraid my lenience can only stretch so far."

Damn this man. Damn this man to all Oblivion. I think I will assassinate him myself if I survive this mad journey of mine. "She is my housecarl. Just a  _housecarl_. As neither you nor Faralda could answer my question, I must go there merely to ask Urag—"

"A lycanthropic housecarl?" He cuts me off. "With due respect, I ask you not to insult me by denying it. You have done enough by bringing her here, where at any moment she could transform and kill one of my students. I dare not risk the collection in the Arcanaeum in that same way."

It takes all my willpower not to Shout him apart, but this is one of those rare moments in which I can provide no strong counterargument. Moreover, I have no desire to explain the nature and circumstances of Hircine's Ring, which Lydia still wears. "Leon," I say, though without taking my eyes away from Savos Aren.

"I take responsibility for Lydia while my sister is in the Arcanaeum. We will join Tolfdir in the Hall of the Elements. Together, both of us can defeat a werewolf. Do you accept?" Leon's strong Imperial accent colors his words. I have noticed that his command of the common language has improved since he began traveling with me, though still he avoids speaking it whenever possible. His aptitude for languages never did quite match mine.

After a brief pause, Aren sighs. "Very well." He opens a book and lays it flat on his desk. "Just don't let her disturb the Eye of Magnus."

With nothing more to say, I storm from the office of the Arch Mage, my companions trailing behind me. We part ways at the entrance to the Hall of the Elements, where I can feel the same fascinating discomfort radiating from the Eye that so intrigued me two months ago.

I never told anyone about my experience with the Eye, and continue to resist any urge to do so. I am still very much of the opinion that power such as this has no place in mortal hands, and so long as I hear no reports of other mages using it to commune with the dead, I am content to remain silent on the matter. Another undertaking of mine, I think, should I survive my war on the gods, will be to bury the Eye again. If ever I do have the opportunity, I will bury it much, much deeper than Saarthal.

Despite my current frustrations, I must smirk just a little and wonder, privately, if such inclinations as these are a result of my time with the Greybeards.

I enter the Arcanaeum and inhale the familiar scent of old books with a sort of gusto: assassin or no, Dragonborn or no, I was a scholar first. More than half my life was spent in places like this, bent over thick and dusty tomes.

But for once, it is for the librarian himself that I have come here. He stares at me from his desk at the far side of the hall, his mouth and jaw set in an ever-present scowl. Had the decision been mine, I would have gone straight to Septimus Signus, but Leon begged me to speak with Urag first. Out of concern for his budding reputation at the College, my brother pleaded with me to help him avoid explaining the circumstances under which the Dragonborn learned of Signus's location. So now I am here, asking useless questions.

"You've come back at a fine time, girl," he says as I approach. "Almost too fine. I take it you're looking for information."

I stop before the desk and look up and into his eyes. "Has there been any news of Septimus Signus?"

"I think if you were anyone else I'd sick a Dremora on you. You already know the answer to that. Two-hundred years at this job and you really think I wouldn't know when a document's been tampered with. I'll give you credit for the little show you're trying to put on right now, but that's about it. Now get out of my Arcanaeum and remember to hire yourself a boat." His arms are crossed and his stare is hard.

For my part, I make a great effort to keep my expression neutral, torn as I am between laughter and shock. At least he has chosen not to ask questions. At a loss for any greater eloquence, I simply say: "Well then," and turn on my heel.

I find my companions in the Hall of the Elements, where the Eye of Magnus still dominates the center and radiates its incomprehensible power. Leon leans toward me. "All is well?"

I run a hand through my hair. "Yes," I say in reply, feeling little need to tell him the whole story.

"So good to see you again, Amara." Tolfdir lightly takes my hand in greeting. "I was just discussing our progress with Leon. Two months and this construct is still just utterly baffling. I tried to siphon magicka from it a few weeks ago, just to see what would happen, but the effects were so overwhelming that I was left unconscious for more than a day. Savos tried too, with the same result. Even the smallest amount proves too much of a shock to the senses. It's absolutely fascinating."

" _Really_ ," I reply, but say nothing else.  _I_  remained conscious when I siphoned magicka from it, and then some. What could that mean, I wonder.

Ungolim studies it so closely that his nose nearly touches the thing, and I have half a mind to pull him back before he hurts himself. "Has anyone tried to touch it?"

"Oh yes." Tolfdir shakes his head sadly. "A newer student, claiming she was obsessed with the realms of Aetherius. She thrust her hand into it, screamed, and then just… disappeared. We have no idea what happened to her."

_She went to the realm of the dead_. I dare not share my knowledge, however, as I know its danger. I make no reply whatsoever.

But then Tolfdir turns his attention to Lydia, who stands at a much greater distance from the Eye and stares at it in obvious discomfort. "Just out of curiosity, miss, do your senses tell you anything peculiar about it?"

Lydia and I share a look. With my expression I try, as much as I am able, to tell her to be discrete. In truth I have not the faintest clue what difference her wolf senses might make, but I make my silent plea all the same.

I think she comprehends. "It's big and blue. There's no smell, but the buzzing's giving me a headache."

"Oh, well then," Tolfdir says with obvious disappointment. He and Leon continue their discussion, but I stop listening. Instead I touch Lydia's arm and lead her back outside. Ungolim looks up at us, but I motion that he may stay, and he nods.

Together, we make our way into town to inquire about boats. "There was buzzing," she says after a brief silence, "but there was singing, too. Chanting. Talking. Tell me why."

I take a long breath: part of me is in awe of the keenness of her senses, while another part is quite wary of explaining them to her. But I know, too, that there will be little use in lying to her. "Even their best scholars and mages could not perceive that, though I urge you to keep your knowledge to yourself." I stop and fix her with a hard stare. "It is a hole in the fabric of reality. I learned its nature by accident, and through circumstances I am unsure of. Its mystery is one I would see preserved, as I believe the Eye to be unfit for mortal hands. For this reason, I beg you to keep silent on the matter."

The sound she makes lies somewhere between a huff and a laugh. "Finally, a secret with good intentions."

I hold the door to the inn open for her. "That is not such a rare thing."

"Mhm." Nonchalant, her hands in her pockets, Lydia strides past me, and I follow.

 

* * *

 

_20 Sun's Height, 4E202_

 

It is a small boat, worn but sturdy and well-built. It holds well against the thin sheets of ice, which are thin at this time of year and thinner still under the midday sun, though I do feel it necessary to melt it further with fire magic.

The wind whips at my hair, and despite my ability to displace unwanted cold with the Thu'um, still I must admit that this little journey is a wholly unpleasant affair. Ungolim and Lydia take turns rowing while Leon melts ice from the sides. Septimus Signus must indeed be some kind of madman to live in an environment such as this.

His outpost, marked by a weathered boat and a sizable tunnel into the ice, becomes visible before very long, much to my relief. It is with a sort of twisted humor that I realize how close he had been along, in that one corner of Skyrim that I never would have thought to search. Now I can only hope that the man is still  _alive_ , after all that frustration.

We steer our boat just next to his, tether it to a metal pole bored deep into the ice, and disembark. The ice sheet is uneven, but it is thick enough to hold our weight and the fresh layer of snow keeps us from sliding about. A tunnel, marked by a wooden ladder, delves deep into the heart of the ice.

Leon looks between me and the ladder. "I could go for you, if…"

I lower myself into the tunnel and begin descending the ladder. "Not a chance." Heavy body or no, I have been searching for this man for too long to let some ice and a ladder stop me. It is not the most pleasant exercise, of course, but I manage all the same.

The final rung leaves me in a cavern hollowed out of the ice, lit by magelight, and made into a makeshift living space. All of it is dominated, however, by a massive and magnificent structure of some Dwarven make that diverts my attention immediately.

" _Ecastor_ …" I descend the small slope into the cavern proper, utterly fixated on the thing.

The mad scholar himself stands before it, his back turned to me. "Yes, the Dwemer lockbox. Clever Dwemer. Too clever for Septimus."

I cannot stop it: I begin to grow uncomfortable. A lifetime of having feared the mad potential of my own mind has left me understandably wary of that same disturbing presence in others. It sends a cold shiver down my spine, even in this frozen waste. I try to swallow it down, telling myself, once again, that madness is  _not_  contagious, and that mine is cured. "Are you Septimus Signus?"

He turns and bows with a flourish. "I am, I am! Septimus Signus, scholar, Imperial, madman, pleased to meet you. Has the Lady come to help poor Septimus with the lockbox?"

I glance at the thing. "What is inside it?"

"Knowledge! Power!" He leans in closer and speaks in a tone of conspiracy. "My lady, inside this box is the heart of a god. All of it kept from me by clever, clever Dwarves."

"The heart of…" I look to Leon, who is equally as astonished. " _The Heart of Lorkhan?_ "

"But I cannot open it!" Signus cries, shaking his fist at the box. "The key is lost on poor Septimus. He needs insight. Greater insight! To see past time and space. You will help. You can help!"

"You mean with an Elder Scroll? That is why I have come—"

"An Elder Scroll! Yes, yes, all-seeing vision to part the clever veil. Dwarves, clever Dwarves, they could read the Scrolls with starlight. The Scroll!" He takes both my hands in a childish display of joy and I must fight every urge to set him aflame, disturbed as I am by his proximity and the poor state of his mind. "You have come to retrieve the knowledge for Septimus. He said you would! He said so!"

"Who?" I back away from the man. I can feel Lydia's steady presence just behind me, though I do not turn around. "Urag gro-Shub?"

Signus laughs. "Who?" Then he turns back to the great lockbox. "Elder Scrolls. Indeed. The Empire. They absconded with them. Or so they think. The ones they saw. The ones they thought they saw. I know of one. Forgotten. Sequestered. But I cannot go to it, not poor Septimus, for I... I have arisen beyond its grasp."

"Where is it?" Lydia's front presses, ever so lightly, against my back. The relief that this simple contact provides is instant and intriguingly strong, and I am grateful for it: it is, I hope, another small step along a very treacherous path.

He spreads his arms wide. "Here. Well, here as in this plane. Mundus. Tamriel. Nearby, relatively speaking. On the cosmological scale, it's all nearby." He opens a chest next to his bed and removes two items, only one of which I recognize immediately: a Dwemer lexicon.  _A real lexicon!_  A younger incarnation of myself would likely have tried to kill the madman for it. "Under deep. Below the dark. The hidden keep. Tower Mzark. Alftand. The point of puncture, of first entry, of the tapping. Delve to its limits, and Blackreach lies just beyond. But not all can enter there. Only Septimus knows the hidden key to loose the lock to jump beneath the deathly rock."

He hands me the lexicon and the other item, an odd spherical thing. "The lexicon I recognize. But what is this?"

"An attunement sphere! The key to the tonal lock, to Blackreach! The lady will know. She will. She must. And the lexicon, blank for the Scroll! Inscribe it to open the great lens at Mzark, where the forgotten Scroll lies." He watches me expectantly.

"A Dwemer ruin?" I feel a rising sense of dread and curiosity: fascinating or no, Dwemer ruins are exceedingly dangerous… and dark.

"Alftand! Alftand, lady! Blackreach! Mzark! Why do you wait?"

"Alftand," I repeat, staring at the objects in my hands. I know where it is. I have at least  _some_ knowledge of just about every Dwemer ruin that dots the landscape of Skyrim: because no Dwemer ruins lie within the borders of Cyrodiil, I was thus restricted, in my youth, to my books on the subject. I have delved into those ruins a mere few times since settling in Skyrim, and each time, the constant danger imposed by my surroundings kept me from going very far.  _Ah_ , but now I must stride right into the dark and dare the hordes of Falmer and animunculi to kill me… and all on the word of a madman who lives in ice.

Lovely.

"Alftand…" I turn, approach the ladder, and begin to climb. I have nothing more to say to Signus and decide it better to leave before I lose control of my nerves. "Alftand…" An industrial city of middling age, located southwest of Winterhold, thought to be an important location for the production of steam animunculi. Rediscovered toward the end of the Third Era. Only a few expeditions have returned alive. The warning is always the same:  _Danger_.

How grand.

A cold wind slaps my cheeks when I emerge from the tunnel. There are worse ways to die, I suppose. At least I will die in a place that fascinates me.

"You will not help him acquire the Heart of Lorkhan, will you?" Leon asks me once all of us are on the boat.

I laugh, but it is bitter. "Of course not. I think no one of us will ever see him again."

"What do we face, Amara?" My brother looks somber.

I hold his gaze for a brief span, silent. Then: "We must bring an abundant supply of food and water. All of you must wear boots that have been enchanted to be silent. We will need medicine, especially salves for burns caused by hot steam and metal, as well as potions to negate the effects of poison and disease. We need torches, extra socks, strips of linen, and a few bottles of the strongest spirit we can find."

Leon furrows his brow. "Alcohol?"

I nod, but my eyes are on the water. "Yes, for the cleaning of wounds… or… if necessary, a toast to Arkay… because  _that_ , Leon, is the danger we face." Another pause. "If any of you should wish to stay behind, I will not take offense."

I wait, but… no one speaks. I close my eyes.

"… Thank you."

 

* * *

 

_24 Sun's Height, 4E202_

 

Lydia's sword plunges into the chest of the raving Khajiit, then her boot kicks him to the icy floor. He dies after a few seconds, twitching constantly. A skooma addict.

He is the last of a recent expedition into these ruins. The mottled possessions and scattered severed limbs provide a strong clue as to the fates of the dead cat's fellows. Moreover, the chunks of flesh bitten out of the half-frozen corpse that the dead cat had been guarding tell us he had been here long enough to starve. I can think of no better introduction to these ruins than the gruesome scene before me.

We press onward, and gradually, ice and rock give way to architecture, all molded out of metal and stone. "Pay attention to the walls," I say quietly, though still that all my companions can hear me. "Animunculi may emerge from those shuttered tunnels. They  _will_ attack. Remember to aim for the red gems." I scan the walls for anything resembling a map. We will need one.

Two sphere guardians burst from the walls with a crash.

But they land in a shallow pool of oil.

" _Back!_ " I shout. I ignite the oil before they can roll away from it. The immense heat disables the mechanism that grants them movement and they fall to the floor. "Leon!"

A flash of lightning shatters the red gems in both their centerpieces and they go dead. " _Edepol_." He clutches his chest in some symbolic effort to calm his heart. "These things are terrifying. I will never understand why the Dwemer fascinate you so."

"For that very reason." I nudge one of the sphere guardians with a foot, then look all around. All around us is the hum of machinery, still functioning even after thousands of years of neglect. It is thanks to these machines that our surroundings remain lit by scattered magelights, much to my pleasant surprise. Not every ruin has fared so well. "I think this is a main thoroughfare. It would explain all the tunnels for animunculi."

"So only the dangerous path leads to the goal." Leon falls into step beside me. "I fear becoming lost."

I inhale through my nose. The air is old and musty and reeks of metal. "As do I. We must find a map… soon. It is not uncommon to find them inscribed on the walls."

"But until then…" Ungolim pulls a piece of charcoal from his pocket and uses it to draw an arrow, and the number  _1_  underneath it, on a nearby wall. "Some precaution."

 

* * *

 

_25 Sun's Height, 4E202_

 

A day passes… at least, I think it is a day… before we find ourselves in that same place where Ungolim inscribed his first arrow. Stark and obvious against the gloom, it does much to dampen my spirits. And still, we have found no map.

" _Merda_." I pull my hair back and tie it with a piece of string. Sweat and dust coat my brow.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me." Lydia's hands twitch with building rage. Though she does her best to control it, I know that all the noise from the machinery is ruining her temper. Twice already I have had to use healing magic to soothe her headaches. She paces, growling.

Ungolim rubs at an electrical burn on his arm. "Are you sure a map might not be in some other form?"

"Paper would have disintegrated by now." I scowl. "Some cities use engraved metal, but I have not seen that here."

"A layout to discourage outsiders and no obvious map. I take it only residents were privy to such information."

"In a way, yes." I cross my arms. "But the Dwemer were meticulous and efficient. A lost resident was a resident not at work. It is not the map that must be memorized, but rather… where to look for one."

Lydia kicks the head of a fallen sphere guardian and it crashes against the nearby wall. "That doesn't help!" She roars.

I let my hand ball into a fist, but do not respond to her anger otherwise. Indeed I feel inclined to  _share_  in it, such is the state of my frustration.

Leon brushes dust from his robes and looks at me, weary. "Onward, then?"

Ungolim draws a new arrow and number on the wall.

 

* * *

 

_29 Sun's Height, 4E202_

 

The massive blade of the sphere guardian screeches off Lydia's shield in a shower of sparks. Her sword thrusts toward its centerpiece, but misses. I raise a hand, crackling with magic, to blast the thing away from her, but it fires an armor-piercing bolt at her just before my lightning hits it.

She screams.

I scream.

The animunculus flies away from her, trailing smoke but still functioning. My shot had missed its mark. Then the metal husk of another sphere guardian crashes against it, giving Leon just enough time to recharge and shock the thing into Oblivion. Ungolim sinks to the floor, out of breath, apparently having been the one to toss that animunculus.

I rush over to Lydia. Blood drips from the wound under her hand. "I got lucky," she says amid heavy breaths. "It was aiming for my heart."

"Let me see it." As gently as my shaking fingers will allow, I pull her hand away. The bolt is buried deep into the flesh of her shoulder, but has not quite pierced through to the other side. I instruct Leon and Ungolim to keep watch and then begin to unbuckle Lydia's cuirass. Thankfully, the front piece detaches from the back: I am not forced to pull it over her head.

Blood soaks the shirt underneath, which I must cut away with my knife. She laughs a little, though pain tinges her voice. "Guess I won't talk about old habits."

"So long as it keeps you talking." She hisses when I touch the bolt. "Do you feel faint?"

"Won't lie. A little." She looks between it and me. "It's barbed at the end, isn't it." It is not a question.

"Yes. Tearing it out will cause massive damage and bleeding. Leaving it there will staunch the bleeding, but the infection would kill you first. Or…"

"Push it through." She takes several deep breaths, readying herself. I give her a thick piece of leather to bite down on.

Perhaps it is bold, perhaps it is unwelcome, but I cannot stop myself: I kiss her forehead, then press my lips to the shell of her ear. "I have always admired your bravery, Lydia."

She pulls the leather from her mouth with her good hand. "C'mon, before I pass out." But she says all this with her cheek pressed against mine before moving away to put the leather back between her teeth.

I push. She grimaces and pants and bites down hard on her gag, trying with all her might not to make any noise. I push until the barbed tip breaks through the skin of her back, glistening with blood. Then I pull the tip, and the whole bolt, from her shaking body. I press my palms to either side of the gaping, bleeding wound, and try to fill it with healing magic. I sigh with exhausted relief as her flesh begins to knit together and her shaking stops.

She spits her gag out and takes a deep breath. "I saw it."

"Saw what?" The spell is taxing my strength, and my vision begins to swim, but I do not stop.

"The map. I was close enough to see it." She turns to look at me, but her expression quickly changes to concern. "Stop. Don't be stupid." Her hand touches mine.

"Hmm?"

"I don't need to be a mage to see that you're exhausting yourself. It's fine. I'll be fine."

I am reluctant, but I do pull away. The wound is closed, but incredibly tender. That shoulder will trouble her. Briefly, I look down: my hands are covered with her blood. "Where is the map?"

She points. "The metal… thing… that opens up when it's about to fire a bolt. You were right about hiding in plain sight. I never would've seen it had it not gotten close enough to hit me."

I pick my way over to the fallen animunculus. The sheathing around its firing mechanism is closed, but I manage to pry it off with one of its discarded bolts. True enough, a map is inscribed on the underside of the metal. The inscriptions are small, but perfectly legible. "Clever bastards."

 

* * *

 

_?_

 

It is dark down here, so impossibly dark. I can no longer track the days. I cannot even guess.

Of course the bowels of the city are dark: what use would Falmer have for light? The first encounter was difficult, as were all subsequent encounters. We are blind. Lydia has her heightened senses, yes, but her constant state of alert is wearing her nerves away. She does not sleep.

Occasional factory centers provide small pockets of magelight, but these grow ever the more sparse.

Moreover, we have begun to experience a shortage of drinking water, which forces us to collect the water that drips from the overhead pipes. We have no way of knowing if it is clean, though Leon, Ungolim, and I try to boil some of it whenever we stop to rest. Still, what we have is not enough, and all our dried food does much to worsen the situation.

A Falmer lies dead at my feet. I killed it just a bare second before it could stab me in the guts, right where the child grows still. It was a scrape, just the barest scrape against the flesh of my belly, still covered by my robes, but it haunts me like a ghost.

I try not to imagine my fate, had the foul beast been successful.

 

* * *

 

_?_

 

We follow the map. We go deeper and deeper, ever darker and ever colder. The map is difficult to read in the dark, and while the hordes of Falmer threaten me from without, exhaustion and thirst threaten me from within.

All around us is a vast tomb of crazed creatures and broken machines. The darkness is unrelenting. I fear it will drive us all mad.

We rely on candlelight spells: the Falmer are blind, so they cannot see our lights, but they  _can_  smell fire. We learn, rather quickly, not to burn our torches.

Still, they ambush us when we stop to rest in great cavern of rock and dripping water, where the sound of machinery is finally far away and Lydia is given peace after days—weeks?—of torture from the noise. It is after the silence lulls her to sleep that they attack.

They are like a swarm of bees: relentless, charging in all at once.

" _FUS RO DAH!_ " Swathes of them are blasted into the darkness, only to get up and charge right back into the fray. We cast our magelights and magical armor and make our stand, but there are too many, too close. The great black werewolf roars and tears through their bodies like a sickle through wheat. She fights to stay at my side.

Ungolim goes down first. The darkness makes him little more than a shadow, but still I can see when a Falmer sword runs him through.

I Shout with such unbridled rage. It is a gout of fire, hot enough to melt flesh away from bone.

Then, suddenly, I am being carried away. " _Wait!_ " I cry. Lydia carries Leon under her other arm, but Ungolim still lies inert on the rocky floor, his candlelight spell still hovering just above his head. "Please…"

" _He's dead. You made a path and I'm using it._ " We pass under some sort of gate. I do not see it clearly. The Falmer pursue us from a short distance away.

Lydia drops Leon and me and turns to close the gate. " _No!_ " I cast a wave of fire, tall, desperate, and mighty. Its heat melts several of the Falmer while its explosive force blasts several of them away. "Save him, Lydia. Save him.  _Please_."

The wolf roars and leaps toward my Silencer's dying magical light. From the darkness, the Falmer horde stirs and charges once more. She hoists his body and  _runs_. Leon and I stand ready to shut the doors of the gate and all the while, in that infinite space of a few heartbeats, fast and slow and unreal in magnitude, I watch their claws and crude weapons and horrible faces poke out of the thick shadows just beyond the wolf's tail.

She leaps and we close the gate and seal it with Alteration magic. They are locked out, but still we are not safe: this becomes obvious when a Falmer sword clatters just shy of my feet. They cannot see us and they cannot reach us, but this will not stop them from trying to kill us.

So we try to run.

We meet a wall far too soon. I see a raised platform just at the edge of my circle of magical light. A spear sails just past my ear and clatters against the wall.

" _Cornered_." Leon curses.

"No." My hazy vision finally lands on the mechanism atop the platform. "No." I jam the attunement sphere into its intended slot.

The floor rumbles and shifts and then we are sinking, deep into the dark. I pull the sphere from its slot when the platform grinds to a halt. It rises again, and soon enough, our attackers are completely sealed off from us.

Only now do I come to realize that a crude dagger protrudes from the flesh of my forearm. I blink at it in confusion and wonder why it does not hurt. Then my confusion doubles when I realize that my candlelight spell has faded, although I can see the dagger. I look up and around, awestruck.

This must be Blackreach.

" _How the hell are you still alive?_ " The voice of the wolf cuts through my delirium.

He does not respond, though his lips twitch in an attempt to smile.

I approach and kneel over him, too exhausted and unhinged even to weep. He is covered with blood,  _soaked_  with it, and not all of it is his own. He watches me through heavy eyes. " _Domina_."

I kiss his brow. "No death speeches." My voice is hard and choked with pain. "I will not have it."

Another small twitch of a smile. His voice is little more than a whisper. "My magic won't… slow the bleeding… much longer."

I laugh bitterly and kiss him again. "My clever Ungolim."

Leon seats himself just behind me, his palms pressed flat against my back. "I will help you."

His is a dangerous offer, and we both know it well: if either one of us loses concentration, the shock to our systems could be lethal. And of course Leon and I will choose to do such a dangerous thing in what might be the worst possible environment.

Well… I suppose there are worse ways to die. "Very well. Lydia, please keep us safe."

She grumbles, but turns to keep watch.

This is stupid of us. I would say we are mad for it, but… I cannot regret the sight of Ungolim's mending flesh. This wound is far more complex than Lydia's bolt through the shoulder: more than just muscle, there are the damaged soft tissues and the bowels. All these I must will whole again. I must evaporate the foul humors and will new blood into the veins. The magicka drain is incredible, even with Leon's assistance.

An eternity passes before Leon and I are forced to stop. Very, very carefully, he pulls his hands away from my back and I slump over Ungolim, exhausted. It is not a perfect job but… it will do. He will survive this.

I look up to see the wolf chewing on the head of a Falmer carcass. " _This little one tried to attack while you were in your trance._ " She tosses the body. " _We need shelter. I think that's a house over there_." She gestures with one of her massive claws.

I see it: a small building, intact, and not so far away from us. I struggle to my feet. "Can you carry him?"

Her eyes shift between Leon and myself. " _Can you carry_ yourselves _?_ "

I take my brother's arm. "If we must."

We reach the building without any further encounters, much to my pleasant surprise. Its interior is quiet, its magelights still function, and it is blessedly free of Falmer. We close the heavy metal doors behind us.

Lydia lies Ungolim on the stone bed while Leon sinks down on its edge, partially from exhaustion, and partially out of an interest for the lone skeleton on the dusty floor. Lydia reverts to her human form after a few moments and comes to slump against a wall. The skin under her eyes is nearly black from lack of sleep. I all but crash onto a stone chair and let my face fall into my open hands.

"Tell me when you have enough energy to help me seal the doors," I say to Leon without looking at him.

"Soon," is his weary reply. "Just… not now."

"Can you stay awake?"

"Can you pull that dagger from your arm?"

His comment forces me to notice the dagger once again. I glance down at it. "I feel no pain. Do you think it is a battle high?"

"I have no doubt."

"I do not have the energy to repair the wound. The dagger keeps me from bleeding out."

"Amara…" He pulls a wad of linen and a bottle of alcohol from his satchel and rises, once more, to his weary feet.

"The… old way, then." I grit my teeth and rip the dagger from my arm, and finally, I feel the first miserable shocks of pain. The crude thing clatters to the floor and my blood flows like a small river.

I pull up my sleeve and he dumps alcohol over the wound. It stings. It  _burns_. Then he wads the linen against it and wraps it up tight. "You can mend it after you sleep. I will take first watch."

"Thank you…" I rise after a moment and spread my bedroll on the floor, then Leon and I seal the doors. I lay a gentle hand on Lydia's shoulder. "Pull out your bedroll. Sleeping like that will hurt your neck."

"I don't have it anymore…" she says, her voice sleepy. "I lost my pack up…" she points upward, "with the ambush." She begins to pull off her armor, too tired to even worry about defending herself. "So… wall."

I pause a moment, but soon take her hand, gingerly, into my own. "Share mine."

She laughs, though it is somewhat bitter, and rubs her eyes. "Fucking shameless."

Still, we fall asleep pressed together, as ever, with my back to her front.

 

* * *

 

_Author's Note:_

 

_1\. Again I've brought up the Eye of Magnus. I'll repeat, just for the record, that the College of Winterhold questline will not appear much in this story. I do have a little plan for the Eye, though. ;)_

_2\. Have you ever thought it strange that Dwemer ruins were called "cities" but never actually_ looked  _like cities? Well. I wanted my characters to get lost and, basically, get frustrated and suffer. No part of this story will be a walk in the park for anyone. Not on my watch._

_3\. … On that note, though, it was a little challenging to write the parts where they're stuck in the dark. I mean, how much can actually be said about it, you know? It's dark. It's scary. They're probably gonna die. I can only repeat it so many times. :P I hope I wrote in just enough confusion and misery without actually beating a dead horse, as it were. What did you guys think?_

_4\. There are no Falmer bowmen in my story. Blind frigging Falmer being able to shoot bow and arrow is bullshit, Bethesda. Bullshit._


	18. Elder Knowledge, Part 3

**Chapter 18: Elder Knowledge, Part 3**

 

_?_

 

I cannot say for how long I remain asleep, but I awake to the sound of a quiet conversation:

"I don't know how to answer that."

"Ah," Leon sighs, "perhaps it is for the best. I only wondered. I have heard it said that a real brush with death can change a man."

"He gains some perspective, surely," Ungolim muses. "Being an assassin shows me the frailness in others, but now I'm reminded that I'm no different."

"But very few people have your command of magic.  _How_ did you keep yourself alive?"

"A very convincing illusion, strong enough to convince my own guts that they were whole."

"That… makes no sense."

"Some might also call it willpower, tempered with a little luck."

Leon laughs a little. "Luck, indeed." A pause. "I thought I had watched you die."

"Well it's thanks to you I'm still here."

"That is tender for an assassin, no?" Another pause. I grit my teeth and will my ears to stop functioning… this is  _not_ a conversation that I want to be privy to.

"I'm not just an assassin."

"Why yes, Ungolim of Valenwood. I say you were raised by wolves and believed you  _were_ one… well, until you realized you cannot howl. Now you are just wolf-mer."

He laughs. "Is that your newest theory?"

"Among others."

"I like it. You should keep it."

"Bah! You torture me with all your secrecy. Will you really never tell me about your upbringing?"

"You can keep trying to find out."

"You might find me rather persuasive, my dear Bosmer."

"I wouldn't doubt it."

I sit up rather quickly, wanting to hear no more of their talk. I care for them both, yes, but I can endure only so much of their poorly-timed flirting. Leon sits cross-legged beside Ungolim on the stone bed. He looks exhausted. When I tell him to sleep, he falls unconscious almost as soon as his head meets his bedroll.

Lydia has not moved at all, though it is not difficult to understand why: of the four of us, it is she who needs this small respite the most. Truly I cannot say how long she has endured with no sleep, what with the constant sensory bombardment from the city's machines and our ever-present need for her to detect any oncoming Falmer. I can only hope that the glowing mushrooms of Blackreach will ease that latter burden.

I approach Ungolim and look him over, searching for any signs of sickness. "How are you feeling?"

"Well enough,  _Domina_. That was quite a marvel of magic you performed."

I rest the back of my hand against his brow: no signs of fever. Good. "And you. It is no small miracle that you managed to keep yourself alive."

" _Domina_ …" He takes my hand into both of his. "Thank you… for retrieving me. I would have understood, had you left me there… But thank you. I did  _not_ want to die among the blasted Falmer."

I squeeze his hand. "Oh Ungolim… of course. I would never dare leave you behind, alive or dead. Perhaps you will think I have grown soft but… after all that we have endured, I consider you not just my Silencer, but my friend."

" _Domina_ …" His voice is soft, but his smile is wide.

"You may call me by my name if you wish. I think that is a grant long overdue."

"Amara." He sounds out my name, unused to its syllables. "I'm glad to call you a friend."

I give him a small smile and then turn away, ready to change the subject. "Any thoughts on our skeletal roommate here?"

"The answer might interest you, actually." Absentmindedly, his fingers brush over his still-tender wound. "Leon was looking about while you slept. Those journals on that metal shelf there," he points, "are worn but mostly still legible. They're the field notes of the alchemist Sinderion of Skingrad."

"You jest." I take a journal from the shelf, and true enough, it bears his name. " _Ecastor_. His disappearance was a shock to the Imperial City. House Aestus has a story, you know, that Sinderion and the Patriarch once cooperated on a project to unravel the secrets of the Nirnroot. Some say that the results of the project were what allowed Sinderion to live for as long as he did."

He sighs. "Your House really  _does_ have a hand in everything."

"More than you would care to know." I flip through some of the other journals, though carefully: these are priceless artifacts. I can think of a few alchemists who would sell their very souls for these little treasures. Carefully as I am able, I place all of them in my satchel.

"Graverobbing?" Ungolim teases.

"Oh, yes."

 

* * *

 

_?_

 

We all undergo a few more rounds of healing magic, and then rest again, before we leave the little house. All of us are in need of water, and the situation will only worsen the longer that we wait.

I look all around: Blackreach is poorly-lit, dangerous, and…  _incredible_. I wonder how many other scholars have made it this far. Even I, with all that I know about the Dwemer, had not known of this place before hearing its name from Septimus Signus.

If somehow I survive, then I think I shall one day return here in the company of a small army. I dare not imagine all that could be learned from this impossible, magnificent place.

The whole of it is still infested with Falmer, and even worse than that, the vile creatures known as  _chaurus_. They are horrible, dark and deadly little things, with poison strong enough to kill a grown man in two minutes without an antidote. We are very lucky, then, that Blackreach holds such a strange abundance of mushroom-light. It makes the Falmer and chaurus much easier to see, and kill, from a distance.

The abundance of water is a further relief: whole rivers of it bubble up from sources even deeper under the ground. Never in my life have I been so glad to drink from a stream like some sort of animal.

Several of the scattered ruins still have functioning magelights, further revealing that they all crawl with Falmer. We avoid as many of these as we can, but this does not help us to avoid fighting for our lives: where there are fewer Falmer, there are far more chaurus, and vice versa.

The central ruin, marked by a beautiful, spherical, and massive metal light, is nonetheless the most disturbing of them all. I am horrified to see a small group of filthy humans and orcs sitting and eating raw meat, like  _animals_ , alongside several Falmer.

Then I realize that they can actually  _see_ us.

One of them leaps up and screams: a man-shaped beast completely devoid of language. A black arrow impales his eye before he can get very close to us, but now his brethren are charging in like a pack of rabid dogs, their Falmer compatriots alongside them.

Now, however, we can fight efficiently. In the dark, their disorganized numbers are deadly and overwhelming… but in the light, this proves their undoing. They just charge, all packed together in a brainless cluster. Leon and I cast wave after wave of fire and lightning magic and none of them think to dodge or retreat, even as their brethren fall around them like heavy rain. Ungolim and Lydia pick off the rest with arrows.

We forge onward, ever vigilant and careful. Eventually Leon must throw Ungolim's arm around his shoulders and help him to walk, which gives me cause for alarm. I watch him pull a vial of health potion from his bag and drink it down.

We need to leave this place, and soon.

Blackreach is massive and sprawling, yes, but it is not a labyrinth like Alftand. We manage to fight our way to the Tower Mzark—provided I have not misread the map, gods help us all—and I cannot help my sigh of relief when the doors close behind us and we find the interior free of Falmer… living ones, in any case. Five of them lie dead on the floor, all in varying states of stinking decay.

Two darkened alcoves face one another from either side of the circular walls of the Tower, one with an intact metal gate, the other broken. Some stone furniture is scattered about the dusty room, but most of it is poorly preserved. The magelights function but poorly, leaving most of the room in shadows. We can see, but not very well.

On the far side of the room is a platform and a lever, instantly recognizable: one of those clever Dwemer elevators. I begin to walk toward it, but then stop as something disturbing occurs to me. I turn to look at Ungolim, who appears to have been struck by the same thought:  _what killed all these Falmer?_

I cast a magelight at the ceiling. No broken animunculi lie alongside the dead Falmer. I take a step closer to the bodies: what remains of their skin is all mottled with lethal steam burns. Dread blooms in my breast.

The one metal gate bursts open with a booming screech.

A centurion… a real,  _functioning_ Dwemer centurion. The crowning achievement of the marriage between metal and biology, with its great steam gun pointed right in my face.

I raise a ward just as it fires. The heat burns my arms just as the explosive force tosses me backward… but then it becomes very difficult to see clearly. Stars and clouds mar my vision. I think my nose is bleeding… or perhaps I have been thrown underwater. Everything sounds like it.

I hear fighting, all of it muffled. Steam guns, scraping metal and shouting.  _The dynamo core_ , I want to tell them.  _Remember my lecture on the dynamo core?_ But I cannot see. I wonder if, perhaps, I am dreaming. Or maybe I have died already.

But then—muted, just barely—I hear Lydia's voice, close to my ear: "Damn you Amara,  _wake up!_ We're not gonna fucking die here!"

A shout… then a scream. Leon.

"Amara… please." The floor shakes: the centurion is drawing closer. "If you die, I die. And… I don't want to die and it's your fault."

If I fall asleep, then Lydia's plea will be as far away as it already sounds. It would be so very, very easy. But then…  _pain_. Horrible, burning, shocking pain shooting up my arm like a thousand little knives, all of it originating from where Lydia squeezes the burns in a vise-grip. It is like a sharp, lucid beacon over dark, dark waters.

I take in a gasping breath and reality snaps back into focus. The centurion raises its gun.

" _IIZ SLEN NUS!_ "

The gun is close enough to Lydia's face that she could reach out and touch it. The centurion stands frozen, completely encased in a prison of ice. She stares right down the gun's barrel, her chest rising and falling at a dangerous speed.

"Move, Lydia," I say as loudly as I am able before I begin to cough up small droplets of blood. "Get up… Move out of the way."

"Right." Heavy breaths. "Move." We clasp hands and she pulls me up and away from the centurion, both of us careful not to touch it. She cradles me close. My head… hurts.

She sits me down just next to Leon and Ungolim, both of them slumped against a wall. I nearly weep to see that they are still breathing… but Leon's body is covered with burns. "I… was about to… hit it." He laughs, wracked with pain, his eyes pricked with tears. "Play dead… get it from behind… You… stole my thunder."

"He protected me from it." Ungolim begins his attempt to heal Leon's burns, starting with his cheek. "Storm magic doesn't stop steam, you… brave, stupid idiot."

"You can… keep insulting me… if you keep up that magic."

Lydia helps me drink a health potion. "Do you feel pain?"

"Yes… rather intensely. It is not full-thickness… so my storm magic did do…  _something_." His eyes shift over to the frozen centurion. "Amara…"

I look back. The centurion is still immobile, but… the ice is melting. I gasp. "The steam! Lydia… Lydia, carry Leon. Quickly.  _Quickly_ , with me." I stumble over to the platform, my arm around Ungolim, Lydia and Leon behind us. Vents of steam begin to break through cracks in the ice.

I pull the lever and we ascend. The centurion bursts from the ice just as the platform rises beyond its reach. I sit, breathe, and rest my head in my hands. It aches badly and I fear I have incurred more damage than I would care to admit, if the dried blood from my nose gives any indication. My body cannot endure much more: it is already too heavy and too slow… I have begun to fear the constant stress and hardship might kill me—and the child—before the Falmer and animunculi do.

The platform grinds to a halt in a spacious and silent chamber. I pull my hands away from my face and gaze upon our goal: a magnificent observatory, a marvel of Dwemer ingenuity. With these machines, the ancient Dwemer would divine the secrets of the universe by harnessing the light of the stars themselves. Here it is, intact and untouched for thousands of years.

"Lydia…" I wave a hand and she takes it. "Tend to him, Ungolim." Lydia helps me to walk up the stone steps to the observatory's control platform.

"So this is… it?" Lydia asks quietly.

"Yes."

"Can you stand on your own?"

"Maybe." I pull the blank lexicon from my satchel and insert it into the empty slot on the console. Lydia stays close behind me, ready to catch me should I fall. The massive lenses all shift into place and the magical oculus in the ceiling begins to siphon starlight from the heavens far above.

"How does it work, exactly?" She regards the whole construct with wary suspicion.

I press the first available button and all the lenses shift again. "I have not the faintest clue. Will you give me another health potion, please?"

"Aren't you supposed to be an expert?" She hands me a vial and I down its contents.

My headache relents… marginally. "As much as any human four-thousand years later  _can_ be."

"… Fair point." I feel her fingers brush along the back of my skull. "Your head's bleeding… and your nose."

"I have noticed." I press the button again, which causes another shift, but also causes the metal cover of the button just beside it to open up. The lenses, as far as I can tell, seem to be moving toward the center of the apparatus, where they might focus all the collected starlight directly downward…  _maybe_.

"That… scared me."

My finger pauses just over the second button and I turn to look at her. I imagine I must look terrible: haggard, dirty, and covered in blood. "Scared you?"

"Yeah." She pulls a cloth from her belt and moistens it with a little water from her waterskin, and then uses it to gently clean the blood and grime from my face. "I could still hear your heartbeat, but… I thought you were gonna die."

I know how I  _want_ to react: I want to cry and throw my arms around her… but I refrain. I would never have expected this show of tenderness, after everything, much less an admission of  _fear_. No, I can only say one thing: "You called me by my name."

Her cloth-covered thumb rubs the blood from my chin. "Yeah, I did."

"You have called me nothing but Listener since—"

"I know." She moves on to my cheek. "I shouldn't call you anything but that. I should've run off after Falkreath still  _cursing_ your name."

Then my other cheek. "But you are here."

"Yeah I'm here with you in this noisy metal hell, following along, keeping you and my kid safe." Then my brow. "I shouldn't be. I shouldn't be here and I shouldn't feel the way I do. You killed them in cold blood and they never even saw your face. Then you… pulled me in, knowing the truth all along. You used me. I should hate you." She pulls the cloth away.

"Lydia." I take her hands into mine and hold them against my chest. "I did not seek you out. I was trying to leave Whiterun as quickly as possible and leave you behind. You were persistent and… something about you… pulled  _me_ in. You are right: I knew and purposely kept it from you, even as I allowed myself to…" I take a deep breath, "to fall in love with you. It happened so fast and… well… what could I have done? I felt constant pain and regret, but I would never have dared tell you. I thought that instead I could perhaps make you happy, at least for a little while… at least… until either the dragons or my own mind would kill me. It was not a wise decision—perhaps it was not fair, either—but I  _never_ intended to manipulate you for its own sake. I have committed many crimes, yes, but even I am not so cruel as that."

She bows her head, giving my words their due consideration. "Is this how you felt, then? Guilty for loving her because you know it's wrong?"

"Yes." I do it. I move in and press my body against hers. Her armor is hard and cold, but it does nothing to deter me. I lay my head against her shoulder, our clasped hands still between us. "Every day."

Her lips are close to my ear. "You never even stood trial."

"Is that what you want?"

She huffs. "They'd never dare execute the Dragonborn. They would toss you in prison, but then you'd escape and leave your bounty in their coffers just for good measure."

I pull back and look her in the eye. "Then I will stand under your judgment alone."

We share a long, long look. "Just try to stay alive for now."

"That would be better facilitated, I think," Leon makes his shambling way up the platform, supporting—and supported by—Ungolim, "by completing whatever work this device requires. Forgive me, but I am still terrified of that monstrosity just below our feet."

I pull away from her. "Right… yes." I press the second button on the console and the lenses shift further toward the center of the apparatus. "If I understand this correctly, the lenses are meant to concentrate starlight into that container in the middle." I point it out to him. "But I cannot say with certainty. This is the first observatory, to my knowledge, that has been found intact. I can make an… educated guess at best." Pressing the second button again uncovers the third, while a muted series of clicks and snaps alert me that the device has begun to inscribe the lexicon.

"What's it doing now?" Lydia asks, more disturbed by the noise than the rest of us.

"It is putting information inside that cube, or lexicon. I do not know how. Starlight," I point to the oculus, "filters the information… somehow… and allowed the Dwemer to divine knowledge from Elder Scrolls without risking their eyesight. The Scroll must be in that container there. See how it lowers each time I re-focus the lenses? I  _think_ it will open once the lexicon has been filled."

Leon watches from over my shoulder. "That is a magnificent blasphemy. How does the machine…  _know_ what information it seeks?"

I shake my head. "I have no idea."

"So we press buttons until something useful happens." He moves to my side, helplessly interested.

"Quite right."

The fourth button becomes available and I press it, causing the starlight to concentrate fully on the central container while it lowers to the floor. To my right, the lexicon detaches from its slot with a  _click_. I take it and descend to the center of the room where the container hovers just above the floor, opened to reveal an Elder Scroll.

Never before have I seen one for myself. It radiates a power unlike anything I have ever encountered before, different even from the mysterious Eye of Magnus. I pick it up: it is solid and surprisingly heavy. I study it under the magical starlight still trapped in the room, weighing it in my hands.

"Shor's bones," Lydia pokes it with a hesitant finger, "it's real."

"May I?" Leon holds out his hands. I nod and give it to him. "What an unusual sensation, as if I must remind myself that I am holding it. Here, but  _not_ here… ah, I can see why these drive mortals to madness."

"We should leave," Ungolim cuts in. He motions toward a shadowy hall leading out of the room from underneath the control panel's dais. "Better up instead of down."

"I agree. Prepare yourselves." I take the Scroll back from Leon and put it in my satchel, then begin walking again.

I take this moment to decide that  _Fortuna_ is ultimately cruel. My companions and I have endured much—and more than once, have come close to violent death—all in order to acquire this Scroll. Now… we must face all of it once more and pray to escape this place with our lives. What bitter fate would that be, I think, were some lucky Falmer to kill me after all this.

At the very least, I can only hope that this hall has its own exit. If it is a dead end, then we must face the centurion below.

We reach the end of the hall far more quickly than I would have expected, where I see another elevator platform and a lever. My hand clenches into a fist. "I have no way of knowing if this leads up or down," I admit to my companions, all while giving the lever a hateful stare. "It might go up, where we will be forced to fight our way out of another ruin… or it might go even deeper than Blackreach. The other option is to face the centurion and take a path we already know."

My words are met with a tense silence.

Lydia breaks it first with a loud sigh. "We'll have to fight either way. Might as well take this and hope it goes up." She looks at Leon and Ungolim, her arms crossed. "Yeah?"

"Ah," Leon rubs his eyes. "It is the same to me, so long as I can make it to the surface with enough vitality left to go piss on the Temple of the Divines."

Ungolim laughs, then clutches at his belly in pain, though still smiling. "You're one to talk of blasphemy. The elevator, then."

"As I had hoped." I pull on the lever.

The platform rumbles and then  _ascends_. I breathe a sigh of relief.

Then a minute passes and still it does not stop. Then five minutes. We pass no openings in the elevator's stone shaft, no points of departure. We do pass the occasional magelight, though most of them seem to have fallen into disrepair. For the most part, however, we are blanketed in darkness.

I cast a candlelight spell and Lydia draws close to me, sword in hand, ready for a battle that never comes. "Why isn't it stopping?"

I look up and all around. Darkness. "Nowhere to stop."

Leon slumps to the floor. I can see the painful severity of his exhaustion, both mental and physical, and I know that I feel much the same, if not worse. I know with a grim kind of certainty that no one of us is prepared to face another ruin. Fighting our way in has all but brought us to our knees… I fear that fighting our way out might prove enough to kill us.

We pass another long stretch of time with bated breath, though how long I cannot say. The platform never slows, never stops. "What if…" I meet eyes with Leon.

Hope and disbelief dawn on his face. "Is that even possible?"

"I dare not dream of it, but…" I look up again, "the shaft is growing brighter."

"Magelights?"

" _No_." Lydia cranes her neck, radiating nervous energy. "I… I hear wind."

Up above, the darkness gives way to a circle of light. We keep ascending and it grows ever brighter. Soon enough, I can also hear gusts of wind. After a few moments more, I take a deep breath of crisp, clean air, for the first time in… I cannot say how long.

The platform grinds to a halt just as a cold wind comes to slap my cheek. I look all around, filled with disbelief and…

" _Mentulae!_ " Leon shouts, perfectly articulating my growing fury. "A curse on all the gods!  _Scelera!_ All this time, an elevator. I will piss on the Temple  _and_ the priests!"

We are still inside a Dwemer structure: a simple stone building to protect the elevator shaft from the elements. It is closed by a great metal gate, which I open by pulling a lever on the wall. The sunlight is so bright that I must cover my eyes.

Squinting, near to weeping, I walk outside and into the wind and snow of northern Skyrim, Lydia close by my side. An elevator to Mzark. All that pain and hardship had never been necessary.

"And I will throttle the neck of Septimus Signus with my own hands. Then I will make him a thrall just to kill him again." Leon stumbles out of the building, almost too weak to stand and walk on his own, but angry enough to keep trying. "Snow. Never have I been so happy to see snow."

My hands begin to shake. "Where… where are we?" I ask no one in particular.

Lydia sniffs the air. "I smell the Sea of Ghosts…" she points, "that way."

"Dawnstar?" Ungolim speculates.

"And  _close_ to Mara's  _house_!" Leon kicks the snow, then stumbles. "A plague on all the gods!"

 

* * *

 

_17 Heartfire, 4E202_

 

A month.

I all but crash through the door to my house. We found the road and a passing caravan who told us the date.

We were in there for a month.

Falcar rushes into the entrance hall from the main room and stares at me as if I were some sort of wild animal. "M- _Mistress?_ "

"A healer." I push past him. "Two healers.  _Go_." Duran circles my legs, whining, but I ignore him and press on. "Cook!" I shout in the direction of the kitchen. "Cook!"

No answer.

I find myself in the main room where a fire blazes merrily in the hearth. I sink down just in front of it.  _A month_. What disasters struck in my absence? How many villages are now being terrorized by dragons gone unchecked?

A month of poor nutrition and constant stress and hardship, and all the while I am still with child. It may have affected her negatively… it  _must_ have.

"Curse the gods." I stare into the fire. "Curse all the gods."

My companions soon join me on the floor, too exhausted and filthy to go anywhere else. The rug quickly becomes a mess of shedded weapons and armor, all of it covered in grime and dried gore. My head throbs and all the while, Duran refuses to stop growling at Lydia.

"Where are the servants?" Leon asks quietly, already losing a battle to sleep.

"I do not know."

"You sent for healers?"

"Yes."

"They should be here." Ungolim lies on his side to my right, clutching his abdomen. His face is a glistening grimace of pain. "Always two or three, no matter what."

"Shut up, stupid dog." Lydia pushes Duran away from her. When he still does not go quiet, however, she shoves her face right against his and growls back with much greater menace. He skitters away from us.

"At least Cook," Ungolim continues. He looks… sick.

"Not here," I mumble.

"And she won't be, I'm afraid. She died," says a rich, deep voice that I recognize all too well. I turn my head to face Nazir, who stands on the threshold to the main room with six other armored assassins standing behind him. "So good to see you haven't."

"From this angle it looks as if you wish to change that." I keep my eyes steady. Really, though, I just want to laugh.  _Go on_ , I want to dare him,  _you might never have a better chance_.

"That was something I always liked about you, you know. You never did like to dance around the subject." He gestures and my Dark Brothers and Sisters all move to surround us. "But no, Sister, I'm not here to kill you. I'm just here to escort you and your companions."

Now I do laugh. " _Escort_ me. Yes."

"Come, now." He approaches me and holds out a hand. "Before we're forced to insist."

"You can demand nothing of me, Nazir. I am your leader. To rise against me is to rise against The Night Mother herself. Whatever grievance you have with me can be discussed privately, and without forcing our initiates to betray me. Remember, all of you, that this results in  _dire_ consequences."

"None of you are in a position to refuse right now, and especially not you, Sister. No healer will tend to you until our business is settled." His stare shifts to Lydia, though he says nothing to her.

"Our  _business_ is intended to end in my death, Brother. Do not take me for a fool."

"Only if you choose death. Now come on, before I'm forced to put you in binds and carry you myself." His eyes flicker back to Lydia. "And put a muzzle on your dog."

I reach out and place a firm grip on her shoulder before she can react. "You will lose," I tell her plainly. "Nazir, you know why I was sent away. You know what is at stake and what will be the consequences if I am killed. That the Dark Brotherhood will  _cease to be_ is not an exaggeration. If I come with you, I urge you to keep that in mind."

He pulls me to my feet. "It's kept you alive so far."

We are led out and away from my house. Nazir and his little band of conspirators take a path that avoids the center of Dawnstar proper, as we all would have made too much of a spectacle: seven black-and-red-clad Brotherhood assassins, and then my battered and injured and filthy company of four.

I know without asking that our destination is the Sanctuary.

I am bringing Lydia into the Sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood.

And now, she will see all of the Listener. And she will see all the Listener's assassins in revolt.

From behind me, she barely makes a sound. I do not need to look back, however, to know that she is filled with hate and rage. I tried to keep this from her. I made a mess of her life and took people she loved away from her, but  _Fortuna_ saw fit to stick us together—and then stay together, at  _her_ insistence—so I gave in to it. I gave in. I told my lies and pulled her close.

Perhaps if I had remained cold she would have lost heart and gone back to Whiterun, but I did not, and could not. In hindsight, really, I was a fool to believe that this moment could have been avoided. We stop before the great Black Door. It asks me:

" _What is life's greatest illusion?_ "

"… Innocence, my Brother."

" _Welcome… home._ "

 

* * *

 

_Author's Note:_

 

_So, Dwarven centurions. They're big, they're powerful, they can cover you with 3rd degree burns with little effort. Oh but, you know, just run up to one in the game and bash its carapace with your sword and that'll totally work. You know, while it's steaming you like a vegetable. Yup… nope. My characters lost that battle. Centurions should not be easy to kill, even by mages and werewolves._


	19. Honor Thy Family

**Chapter 19: Honor Thy Family**

 

_17 Heartfire, 4E202_

 

The Sanctuary is peacefully quiet, as is usual. At any other time, I think I would have found it comforting.

Nazir and his conspirators escort my battered companions and I down the short and shadowy span of the entrance hall, and soon enough, we are stopped before the shrine of The Night Mother. There She is, as ever: the mangled, rotted corpse and Her metal coffin, surrounded by candles, oiled and cared for by her new Keeper, such a gruesome sight for the uninitiated.

Nazir scrutinizes us, calculating, daring me to make a move against him. A part of me begins to mourn, not knowing how else to react to this turn of events. Here I am, a compliant captive, in the Sanctuary that my own two hands pulled back from the grave, among Family members spared the executioner's axe and other worse fates thanks to my efforts.

"Well, my ungrateful Brothers and Sisters, I stand in your trap." I meet eyes with each of them, some of whom are wise enough to look away. I look at Nazir last. "Best not to dally."

Ungolim hunches forward slightly, sick and injured and trying to hide it. His face is a mask of tense frustration.

Leon looks all about, wild and strained and exhausted, rallying his energy for a fight.

Nazir sighs and waves a hand. "First…" Lydia grunts. I turn just in time to see an assassin using Ungolim's disabling technique to immobilize her and then bind her wrists with thick irons. "It's precautionary. Don't try to immolate us all just yet."

"Won't save your skin," Lydia growls from the floor, completely unable to move. " _But you're right to be afraid_."

"Your dog's temper lives up to its reputation, Sister. No wonder we found so many Family members looking like ground meat." He fixes me with a glare. "I didn't want to believe it. I tried to find another explanation, but those glowing eyes force me to erase any doubt. Now you're going to tell me why you did it."

I cross my arms. "Why I did  _what_?"

"You're serious?" He grits his teeth, finally revealing his anger. "I have you surrounded and you're still trying to deceive me?"

"No. Now cease with your drama and state your grievance."

" _Why are you killing us?_ " He shouts at me, his hand hovering just above his scimitar. "You send us all chasing after some creature and all the while it's that  _dog_  of yours tearing our Siblings to shreds! You faked its death just so you could sick it on your own Family. _Why?_ "

I cannot stop it: my jaw drops in complete astonishment. "That…" I give a short, condescending laugh and begin to massage my aching temples. "What an interesting interpretation of events."

"I expected you to laugh like that. You were brash enough to take your dog back into your company, knowing we would see it. Why not laugh, too." He all but shakes with anger. " _Why?_ "

"I did no such thing, you paranoid fool. The Dark Brotherhood is  _my_  creation and  _my_  kingdom and I have no desire to destroy it." As I speak, I take small steps toward him until my nose nearly touches his. "How dare you accuse me of such treachery. I face trials from  _the gods themselves_  and yet, all the while, I have kept you ungrateful wretches from falling back into insignificance and squalor. Now save us all the trouble and stand down." I turn to his assassins. "All of you. Stand down."

"No. She's trying to divert your attention." Nazir backs away from me, though he shows no signs of fear. "The evidence is right in front of us all: There's the werewolf. Look at its eyes. It's the housecarl that was supposed to be dead. It slaughtered our Brothers and Sisters and the Listener's behind it. Now she flaunts it in all our faces and laughs."

"No, Nazir." Finally, I dare to meet eyes with Lydia. She stares back with undisguised hatred. "I am not responsible for their deaths, nor did I order them. For a long time, I truly believed she was dead."

"You have no way of proving that."

"And  _you_  have no way of proving the opposite. Oh yes, you have your incomplete observations, but you were not there when my grief nearly leveled the College of Winterhold."

He bares his teeth. "If you claim no responsibility then  _why_  are you protecting it?"

"Why," I repeat. "Because I choose to, this is why. I owe you no further explanation."

"No," Nazir shakes his head. "No, that's not good enough. You two," he waves at three masked assassins, "go tie up the dog. Torture it until the Listener talks and we come to an agreement."

Magic flares in my palm. " _You will not dare._ Move her but an inch and I will reduce all of you to ash."

He grabs my wrist. "You're too weak. All of you are. Brother Ungolim looks on the verge of collapse and if you don't settle, we'll make sure he stays that way. Look at him. Go on." Though furious, I nevertheless follow his eyes. Ungolim tries his best to hide it from me, but he is slumped, shaking, and sweating. Something is wrong… very wrong.

"No.  _No!_  Not again. I won't be a hostage and I won't let you fucking scum beat me again!" Lydia shouts and struggles, making it difficult for her captors to move her anywhere. " _No!_ "

"The Family demands blood, Listener. Blood and answers. She's killed too many of us and made too much of a mess to demand anything less than an execution. You betrayed us and you continue to betray us so long as that dog is alive."

"Nazir." I say his name and make a choice, one that I know will haunt me for the rest of my days. I gently lay my free hand on his forearm and my eyes fill with tears that do not spill. I am tired and battered, yes, but now I have had more than enough time to replenish my reserves of magicka. He has no way of knowing this: he is not a mage. He knows nothing of the infamous magical vitality of the Aestus  _proles_. "Forgive me, Brother."

His mouth opens in a silent scream as all his insides are rendered to dust, then the whole of him collapses into a small pile at my feet.

The Sanctuary falls silent once more, quiet and shocked and tense.

"I was not made Listener on a lark." I turn to the rest of my traitorous assassins, who have all but frozen in fear. "Release her and unmask yourselves. Do not force my hand as he did. He did not understand that, even in my current state, I would have little trouble killing you all." It is not an…  _entirely_  true statement, but again, they have no way of knowing it. I could kill half of them and injure most of the others before they could take me down, but not without risking Lydia. My best option is to bluff. "Surrender and I might consider mercy. Your lives matter far more to me than Nazir claimed."

When they reveal themselves, I cannot help but to feel a creeping sadness. I see Gulitte, Eilonwy, and Falcar among them, but it is Fafnir who is the last to unmask himself and the first to step forward. "You killed him." His voice and expression are cold.

"Such is the right of the Listener." I look out over the Sanctuary, which I finally notice to be completely empty. "Where are all the others?"

"Gone," he replies. "Nazir told them all to leave. He figured this would get violent."

I fix him with a chilling stare. "Will it, Brother?"

"You killed Nazir. Listener, he exposed your treachery and you killed him."

Magic flares in my palms again. "Enough! I committed  _no_  treachery against the Dark Brotherhood. I  _am_  the Dark Brotherhood! I am the beating heart that keeps this organization alive and if you dare accuse me as Nazir did then you may feel free to follow him."

"So you would kill us all, then?" His hand is on his sheathed dagger again. "You would kill us all, your Family, instead of making your housecarl pay the blood price?"

Lydia watches me with such wide-eyed intensity, her wrists still bound in irons. I lower my hands as a deep sadness finally blooms within me and speak only just above a whisper: "You would ask me to choose?"

From just over Fafnir's shoulder, I see the body of The Night Mother begin to glow.

Ungolim collapses onto the floor and vomits a small pool of blood.

"He needs a healer." I begin to shake as the sight of his suffering fills me with fear and anger. "A healer more skilled than I. His wounds are internal… I… I cannot… You must find one. Go find one. Do not let another of our Brothers die."

"Babette could have saved him."

I squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth, all in a futile effort to will this place away.

"I am not… a martyr to your cause, Brother." Ungolim clutches at his belly, breathing hard. "My blood is on your hands."

"If the Listener loves us as she claims, then she will choose us. If not, then she will betray us and kill us all. Another Bellamont." He crouches and wipes the sweat from Ungolim's brow. "I can only hope you'll hang on long enough for her to choose. I beg you to try."

The Night Mother is all aglow, filled with the Void and prepared to speak, but she is silent, waiting.

She is waiting for me.

Leon catches Ungolim before he falls into his own sick. He vomits again, all of it bloody and fatal. Sweat drips from his brow and his whole body rattles with fever. Leon, growing panicked, makes a futile attempt to cast the Restoration magic that he never learned. Nothing happens. "Mara!"

"And all of you would accuse  _me_  of betraying the Family. You would force my hand and murder your Brother merely to prove your point." I meet eyes with every one of them. "You would kill Ungolim?"

Fafnir does not move or speak… but Gulitte does. She grimaces and breaks and rushes over to Ungolim's side. "I'm sorry…" she says to him, quietly. Her palms press gently on either side of his abdomen. "By Sithis, I'm so sorry. Listener… I… I can help him but I'm not skilled enough to repair it." She turns to her fellow conspirators and shouts: "One of you go get help! Ungolim's not the one at fault here."

All of them share glances, hesitant, and suspicious of me.

"What Family are you?" I ask when no one volunteers. I shake my head, fighting tears, my heart heavy. "No… you only want my shame and my housecarl's blood… and you would even sacrifice your Brother to attain it." I take a deep breath. "Very well… you may have my shame. I will take full responsibility for the actions of my housecarl if you so demand it. Her punishment will be mine. But… because you will attempt to exact that punishment from one or both of us…" I raise my palm, upon which there glows a hot and deadly flame, "may Sithis… have mercy on us all."

_Listener…_

"I choose, Mother," I say to her body while Fafnir draws his weapon. "I make the bitter choice. They die."

_Listener…_

Fafnir faces me, his weapon raised, his chest rising and falling with increasing speed. He knows that he will die. They all know. I am their Listener, their dark and deadly leader, whom they are taught to fear from their first moments among our Brotherhood.

I cannot kill all of them on my own, but they think that I can. I have no other option: I must fight them and hope that Lydia will survive my fires. I dare not look at her to beg her forgiveness, as I dare not look away from Fafnir and his fellows.

But then, unexpected relief: Lydia's mobility seems to return fully and she resumes her furious struggling. Soon enough, the sound of snapping metal crashes all throughout the room and she leaps to her feet, snarling, poised to transform and sink her teeth deep into their flesh. Together, she and I stand poised to make Nazir's accusations true.

"T-They'll know." Fafnir's heavy breathing punctuates his tone. "The whole Family. They'll find the bodies. They'll hunt you down."

_Listener…_

"Then may Sithis have mercy on them as well."

_Spare them_.

My eyes widen. " _I cannot_."

I do not want to kill them. They represent all that I have built here and all the blood I spilled to assume my leadership. They are my handiwork, these backstabbers before me. I do not want them to die, and especially not by my own hand, but there is no other way. They will not have Lydia, nor will Ungolim die neglected on the Sanctuary floor. This is my bitter choice, made with a heavy heart.

_Find another way. I want them alive. Go and do the Dread Father's bidding, as before._

Ungolim groans in pain.

"Do you know what you ask?" I ask her, though my eyes never leave Fafnir and his allies. Does She know, truly, the consequences of Her orders? Or does She still assume that my resolve is temporary?

_You have chosen this, again and again… But it is the Dread Father's wish. Now begone._

_Begone_ …

I grit my teeth when the idea comes to me: there is another way, after all.

"Let us make a deal," I spit at Fafnir. "To save your sorry lives, I offer you an alternative penance: my abdication. I will leave with my companions, you will spit on my name in peace and resolve all cause for revenge, and we will never meet again. Either this, or I immolate you all here and now. Choose."

The Night Mother is laughing.

Fafnir's eyes flicker in the direction of The Night Mother. "Deal," he says finally. He does not lower his weapon, but he does motion his assassins away from the threshold to the exit.

Her laugh is how a snake would laugh, if snakes could.

"Pick him up.  _Gently_." I move to Ungolim's side immediately and watch, helpless, as Lydia takes his shivering body into her arms. "Leon, give him your cloak. Gulitte…" I look between her and Fafnir. "You may follow us… if you wish."

She just nods and follows quietly. I imagine she should want to, as I doubt she will find welcome among Fafnir and his brethren after her choice to help me.

I try not to think too much otherwise. " _I resign_ ," I mutter to Her. " _I resign_." For Ungolim, on the verge of death; for Lydia, threatened with a violent and twisted end; for Leon, who might suffer yet,  _I do the unthinkable_. Sithis have mercy on the Dark Brotherhood.

The laughter fades, slithering away into the darkness of the Void.

We rush down from the Sanctuary into Dawnstar proper, all of us working to safely bear a bundle that has become more precious to me than my forsaken Sanctuary. What a surprising thing, this: shy of a year ago, I would have let him die. He was just an initiate with too much raw talent to ignore, and I was the solitary and goal-minded Listener for whom the ends always justified the means. I would have sacrificed him, the man who has become one of my few real friends.

We make an odd sight: all of us stinking and smeared with dirt and gore, with Ungolim near to death in Lydia's arms, Leon's cloak draped over him, with Gulitte to the left and I to the right, each of us with a hand on him and casting healing magic. What effect our magic might have, I cannot say: his injuries are beyond my skill, and at best, I can only assume we might be holding the worst at bay.

"If you die now, Ungolim, I swear…" I whisper to him as Leon stumbles ahead of us, calling for help. "After all that…"

He cannot speak, however. His eyes, usually such a lucid, sharp, dark brown, now seem clouded and distant. He wants to avoid the pain.

A handful of people heed Leon's call and guide us into a large wooden building near the lake: the apothecary. The old alchemist— Frida, I think—rushes out from behind the counter with alarm. "Wha—What is this?"

We lay him on a bearskin near to the hearth. "Internal bleeding," I say with a painful tremor. I must look like a ragged ghost. "Please… please help him. I will pay anything. Please."

"Right… Right, then!" She turns and scrambles back behind the counter, ducking down to retrieve a very large bottle. "Clear out of the way! And one of you go to the inn. Get the priest. Go!" She pulls the cloak from Ungolim's body just as Leon rushes back out the door.

But then she pauses.

" _What are you doing?_ " I nearly screech.

"That armor…" She looks back up at me with narrowed eyes, and all the while Ungolim is white as a sheet and bare moments away from dying. "He's one of… one of those… And  _you_!" She sets the bottle on the floor. "I can't prove it but I've seen you. You're—"

"I…" My whole body crackles with magic. "I stopped all the town's nightmares! He and I both!" I point to Ungolim. "You will  _help him_ , woman. I have a wrath to match a Daedric Prince and  _you owe this man your sanity_."

"But…" She looks at Ungolim, hesitant but losing a battle with her conscience. "Talos preserve me." She unbuckles his cuirass and gets to work.

The door opens and Leon rushes back in, dragging a priest of Mara behind him by his sleeve. "Sir, this is unnecessary! I—gods above!" The priest pushes past Leon and goes to kneel over Ungolim. "What happened?"

"He was run through with a sword. We tried to heal him with magic, but our work was not skilled enough. The internal wounds must have reopened." I watch the scene before me, numb. "You must help him."

"I'll do what I can…" He calls healing magic into his palms while Frida makes an attempt to administer her potion. "But… but you need to get him to Colette Marence in Winterhold. I don't know how much I can do."

"What kind of priest  _are_  you?" Lydia stops me from lashing out with a firm grip on my upper arm, but that does little to stop my tongue. "What priest cannot—hey!" That same grip now pulls me out the door and back into the cold air.

She makes me face her. "That isn't helping."

" _Winterhold_ , Lydia. He will not survive!" I brace my hands over my still-aching head, over my filthy hair. "Gods above…" I bend forward, just a little. "He will die."

"Well, I…" She crosses her arms. "I mean, I  _could_ …"

"Make him a…" I spring back up, feeling a welcome rise of hope, and lower my voice to say the word: "… werewolf?"

Her brow furrows, but she speaks just as quietly. "No. That  _would_  kill him. I mean I could run him to Winterhold. I run incredibly fast in Beast form, even on two legs. And my fur and body heat should keep him warm… I think."

"That could kill him all the same."

"Well…" Her eyes shift between myself and the door. "It's either that or he dies here anyway."

" _Oh!_ " I use the palm of my right hand to stop a burst of agitated magic from escaping the fist of my left. "Have we not endured enough?"

She watches me pace and fume. "Look, we're out of time. We have a bad option and a worse one. Pick one now and curse the gods later."

I turn away from her and grip the railing, too angry to conserve my movements and too exhausted to try. "My mother would have liked you," I mutter after a brief pause. "Take him. He would want to meet death rather than wait for it to find him." Two black scorch marks, in the shape of my hands, now mar the old and weathered wood.

The door opens again. "Lis—ah, ma'am?" I turn and regard Gulitte. "I'll leave, if you don't… mind…"

"Where will you go?" I ask her as she steps off the porch and begins to walk away from us, apparently determined to put as much distance between us as possible.

"Somewhere, I guess," she says without stopping, though she does look back, briefly. "Somewhere to… hide. Not all of us have providence on our side."

 

* * *

 

_18 Heartfire, 4E202_

 

It is the wee hours of the morning when our horses, sweating and panting hard from our urgency, finally stop in Winterhold. Lydia must have made it here hours before, judging by the scant tracks we spotted along the way.

We find her waiting for us at the gate to the College, standing alongside a rather nervous-looking Nirya. She has a pipe in hand—a new one, it seems—and a solemn expression on her face. As soon as she sees us, she gestures that we follow. "C'mon."

"Where is he?"

"The infirmary." She takes a long draw. "They patched him up enough in Dawnstar to help him survive the trip here, but… Amara, there was a lot of damage."

Tears come too quickly. "Is he dead?"

Lydia sighs quietly, tired and sad. "Not… not yet. You should… go talk to him. He's refusing sedatives."

They are hot; hot and painful. They leave scalding trails down my cheeks. Mute, I follow Lydia into the infirmary where I find Ungolim, all swaddled in clean white blankets, with Colette Marence sitting just beside him. With a respectful bow of her head, she leaves us in peace.

"Amara," he smiles when I take his hand. "Still so odd, saying that."

"Are you in pain?" I look him over: his skin is so pale.

"Not the worst I've had." His breaths are short and labored. "Colette helped with a lot of that… but there's an infection… Falmer swords." He coughs up small droplets of blood. "Nasty things."

" _Ungolim_." I squeeze my eyes shut as the dam bursts and my grief comes in full force.

"That was… bold, what you did," he continues speaking, ignoring my outburst. "I know it was hard for you… I know… you'll be conflicted about it. But…" his gaze fixes on mine, "it was very brave…"

"It was the cowardice of an unfit and irresponsible ruler."

"With the weight of all creation… on her shoulders…" He squeezes my hand. "Make some… make some exceptions… for yourself."

"No, Ungolim. No." The tears will not stop. "I took too long and now it has cost you your life. I made the poor decisions that led to their rebellion in the first place. I was negligent and arrogant and… and I abused my power for selfish reasons. I am… so… so sorry." I clutch his hand to my chest, and weep.

"Was a  _Falmer_  that got me… not you. The rest… is on the Brotherhood's hands."

"But Ungolim…"

"This feels like… a play, doesn't it? Every tragedy has a scene… like this… this same tired old scene. You'd figure the gods would… get bored…"

I laugh and it is painful and sad and ridden with tears and guilt. "Are you going to tell me something deeply profound, then?"

He smiles. "Can't think… of anything." His eyes flicker to Leon and then back to me. They will want some time alone. "Well… then again, I'll say… I think you've done well."

Another small, sad laugh. "Done well?"

"Yes. I know you…. I know how everything… bothers you. A lot's… on those shoulders… but you keep going. And you'll… keep going after today, too…" Now he looks between Lydia and me. "You will."

"Mara, if I may…" Leon gestures to the bed. "Sorry, but…"

"No, I understand." I scrub at my eyes and move out of the way. "I will be nearby."

I take another look at Ungolim before exiting the room. Lydia follows me and shuts the door behind us. The hall is shadowy and silent enough for me to hear my own pulse and empty enough for my grief to echo up and down the corridor. "Not fair," I hear myself say. "Not fair… I chose him and still he dies. It is not…"

"It's out of your hands. You know it is." Her arms come around me and, finally, I notice that she has had time to wash and find clean clothes. She must think I stink horribly, as I still have not had the time or peace to do anything about it.

" _I could have saved him!_ " My face is pressed against her shoulder.

"You saved him from dying alone in the dark. You did all that you could. You sacrificed all that magic and you… even gave up being the Listener. It's… this one isn't your fault." She holds me a little tighter. "You… you actually did. You walked away from it."

"I did," I repeat, still unable to believe it for myself. "So that they can call me a traitor and win their battle and no one else would have to die…" Another sob. "All in vain."

"I'm still here. Leon's still here. You didn't have to kill any of your assassins…" She huffs. "Are you sure they won't… I don't know… try to kill us eventually?"

"No," I reply bitterly. "I have no way of knowing. I only know that they are all very afraid of me… that fear is what made my offer appealing to them." I scrub at my eyes again. "Now my power is forfeit, and still, he dies. I could have fought them off. Taken him to a healer first, the Brotherhood be damned. I could have chosen to kill them from the very start and bought him enough time, but no, I hesitated—"

"Amara." She gives my shoulders a gentle, but firm, shake. " _You did the best you could_."

 

* * *

 

We keep a vigil by his bedside, near to him until the very end.

Colette does all that she can, but even she does not have to power to cure the infection and fully close the wound. It had had too much time to fester in him and he had taken too little time to mend. What innards Leon and I did mend, those tore back open. My work had been too haphazard and unskilled. There had been too much movement, too much excitement, too much stress and too much damage. There had been too much and too little time.

She holds the fever at bay until she can do so no longer. He holds my hand and speaks in soft tones and thanks me for my friendship and all the adventure. He thanks me for staying nearby. He tells me that no one had ever cared so much.

He grows cold just as the sun begins to rise, my Ungolim, my Silencer and friend.

And then he is just a body, just an object, a thing. Gone.

But still, I do not move. I do not move for a long, long time; not until it is time to take the body away and to lay it atop the pyre, a final farewell to a spirit long gone to the Hunting Grounds.

 

* * *

 

_21 Heartfire, 4E202_

 

"Amara Leone Aestus," I mutter and trace thoughtless patterns in the water with my finger, "the Listener who stepped down." I flick the water and watch little droplets rise and fall. "What have I done…"

_Brave_ , he called it. They got my submission and admission and shame and everyone lived…  _should_  have lived.

_I waited too long_.

I should have accepted my ostracization from the beginning. My own assassins were  _rebelling_ , accusing me of treachery and murder—what a strange alignment of events when assassins seek justice for murder—and still I tried to wrest control. I refused to acknowledge that their loyalty was already tainted.

Lydia was massacring them and I did nothing about it. I took her back into my company, knowing all the consequences and risks, and never bothered to bring her before the Family on my own terms and find a solution free of blood. I was stupid and overwhelmed with other tasks and I just wanted her close again. Nazir's interpretation of events was inaccurate, but it was close: I may not have sent her after the Dark Brotherhood, but I did indeed try to keep her from it.

And now Ungolim is dead and it is my fault.

"Amara Leone Aestus," I mutter again, "irresponsible and irrational, guilty, naive  _not_ -Listener." I wonder what Astrid would say to me at a time like this. "Cowardly and unfit." I laugh bitterly. "Selfish and arrogant."

And the new Listener will never have the Blade of Woe… at least, not without being forced to pry it from the claws of a werewolf. Lydia never did give it back to me.

I use magic to reheat my bathwater. This is my fifth bath in three days: I cannot feel clean no matter how much I try. Between baths, Colette forces me to eat and constantly fusses over my health. How I managed to stay pregnant while in Alftand and Blackreach is beyond me, but I have. I certainly do look the part now, all swollen with child. I fight the anger that always builds up whenever I think, even for a moment, that I could have saved Ungolim had I not been so weighed down by my own body.

"No… it is… not your fault," I say to the swell after a pause. I contemplate it, myself, and all the circumstances that brought me here. From this swell there will come a baby, one that I must care for and raise. "I never asked for a baby. I… well, I never even got to blame some bad drunken decision. I was just charged with one. I did not ask."

Neither did I ask to be a mad Aestus, the Dragonborn, or even the Listener. All these things were thrust upon me just as well.

Ungolim had a point: I do feel rather like a puppet on stage.

"Ah, but I  _chose_  the end of that one scene," I say to the air. "I made a poor choice, all too late, and you died." I flick the water again. "Amara Leone Aestus, Dragonborn and mother and murderer, savior of the world." I laugh bitterly. "Blood on her hands."

I find Lydia sitting on my bed when I finally leave the washroom, all clean and dry. When she speaks, she speaks with hesitance: "I ah… heard you talking to… yourself."

My clothes no longer fit and have not for weeks. I must wear robes two times my size and, freed from the eternal darkness of Alftand, I look so disproportionate and misshapen. I think on this as I tie my sash with distaste. "I would rather not have another lecture. You will tell me to stop blaming myself and then list all the reasons why. While I am glad for your concern and care, I am unable to bear the subject any longer."

"Will you…?" She holds out both her hands and gestures that I should approach.

I do so, but with slow caution. I am unsure how I should act: this is new, this request of hers. I come close enough that I can touch both her hands without reaching too far, but then she grasps mine and pulls me a little closer.

She remains seated while I stand and she studies me up and down, my hands in hers. "I was gonna say… I mean, I think pregnancy looks good on you."

"Ah… what?" I stammer, confused and growing ever so slightly embarrassed.

Her ears are red. "W-Well I mean, your skin's glowing now that you've eaten properly and… and you look so… young and…" She releases one of my hands and rests her palm on my belly. "It's really something to see you when you talk to it. Just the look that comes over your face… it's really…" we meet eyes, "really beautiful."

I dip my head as I feel my cheeks begin to burn. "A-All that from overhearing me?"

"Sort of. I was also just thinking it. Right now's either the best or worst possible time to say stuff like that, so…" So pulls me again so that I sit down just beside her. "But I do have some questions I'd like to ask you."

"What are they?" My hand finds its way to my belly again and I look away from her.

"You can't actually…  _resign_ , can you? Aren't you supposed to be Listener for life?"

"I have thought on this, myself. While normally you would be correct, the Dark Brotherhood wants the dragons done away with just as much as the rest of the world. I am Dragonborn and held to different rules, even among them. They have no choice but to accept my abdication and let me go." I pause to think. "Not that it matters much. They were… happy to see me leave." It burns me up inside, knowing it. After all that I have done in the Dark Brotherhood's name, to have sullied my standing so thoroughly and carelessly… Ungolim was right again: it will haunt me like a ghost.

"Because you wouldn't let them take me," she adds, though in a questioning manner. "I killed your assassins and you just…"

"Forgave you and ignored it like a desperately lovesick fool." I press my face into my hands to hide my bitter smile. "All while living with my guilt and trying to make you stay with me, even if you could not forgive me. I have no grand reason for any of it, no deep-laid plans. It… really was just the blind stupidity of a lover. My failure with the Dark Brotherhood… well, those were seeds I sew myself, but I was too distracted to see it and too naive to care."

"That was a foul place," she continues, resting her elbows on her knees. I have to resist the urge to correct her posture. "Stank of death, and it wasn't just that old body. I heard everything in the torture room and just…" she shakes her head, "and you said you're the _beating heart_  of all that."

" _Was_ ," I correct her. "But yes. They were clients who tried to cheat us or who refused to pay."

"Pretty harsh punishment."

I do  _not_  want to have this argument again. "Debtors are thrown in prison all the time."

"But not tortured like that."

I rise from the bed and fix her with a glare. "Lydia. I am upset and in mourning. I have been ostracized and overthrown, I am heavy with child and burdened with several lifetimes' worth of guilt. I have no idea what you expect to gain from this, but it will not be good. Yes, the torture room that I almost never used, that looks like the torture room in Castle Dour, is a bad thing. I am evil and I deserve the molten rivers of Oblivion… And obviously,  _you_  have never been sent to prison."

"O-Oh…" She seems somewhat stunned. "Oh, well… right."

"I…" I try to calm down. "I am in pain. If you could please just… choose another time to make your criticisms… just not now. I lack the strength. You hate who I am and you hate being here with me… I know already. Just for a few days' time, please, regard me as something other than poisonous vermin."

"You're… That's not it. I don't know," she fumbles. "It's all just so… fucked up. You should be dead or in prison, not the Dragonborn, not some hero or… I don't know, just  _you_. You're cruel and ruthless just as much as you're considerate and warm. You've ruined lives, you've saved more. You've ruined mine, you've saved it." She folds her hands. "You tell me you're sorry and how you never meant to let this happen." She gestures between us both with a finger. "This.  _Us_. The worst part is how badly I want to believe you. It's hard, knowing what I know. But then you…"

"I feel no different," I say when her voice trails off. "I never sought any of this, not even you. I always felt an attraction for you, but I could have resisted it. But you were so…" I look her over again, "so  _strong_ , all in a way that I was not. You… you made me feel uncertain and tongue-tied, as if I were a young girl again. You made me stupid, you made me… many things, Lydia. I have explained this to you already."

"Yeah and up until a couple days ago, that was hard for me to swallow. But… I  _did_  see it. You were gonna kill them just to save me."

"I would have, yes," I reply quietly.

"Because you…" Her eyes fix on mine.

"Because I really do love you," I finish for her. "Do you still think I lied about it? I fell hard and fast and let myself make too many mistakes. I ruined my standing in the Dark Brotherhood and  _then_  chose to escape with you instead of redeeming my authority. I asked for none of this, none of it at all, but Sithis himself will take me before I let you die again. I still love you and I am still stupid. It will not change."

" _Gods_ ," she rubs her eyes, tired and a little sad, "not too long ago that you wouldn't even let  _me_  say that word. Love. Now look at you, all resolved and tossing it around."

My hand is on my belly again. "I have little use for avoiding it now. You want me to never tell you another lie, or to omit anything. You want me to say all that there is to say, so… I love you. It hurts. Loving you has changed me and I cannot say that I like it, though I accept it. My love is uncanny and irrational, just as much as it is inexplicable. I have felt the stirrings of love before, but never so…" I search for the right word, "so…  _instinctively_ , as if my whole body insists on it. I know it as well as I know how to breathe."

Her ears flush red again. "Wow, that's…" Her fingers tug and twirl at a strand of her hair, a rare effeminate gesture. I notice, finally, that it has grown somewhat longer since Falkreath. "I don't know what to say. You always were a better talker than me, and this isn't even your native language." She pats the bed again, gesturing that I should sit. "You have this accent and this unique way of talking… you and Leon both… but I like your voice. Always have. The way you say things, always so… I don't know, eloquent. Ah—" she stops quite suddenly, "I'm rambling. You still somehow make me all… eh… The Nords call it  _inn mátki munr_. It's one of those phrases passed down from the old times, before the Empire and the common language."

"What does it mean?"

" _The mighty passion_." She suddenly stops fidgeting and leans forward, her elbows on her knees and her eyes to the floor, all in an attempt to quell her body's peculiar way of responding to nervousness or stress. She was always twitchy in this way, though the Beastblood has made it more pronounced. "You can't stop yourself, no matter what your good sense tells you. You'll do things you'd never normally do, act like you wouldn't normally act. You try to look at just the good," a sideways glance, "even if there's a whole lot of bad."

"Lydia…" Gingerly, I rest a hand on her arm. She stiffens, just a little. It is always such a fickle thing, when we touch. "You must not ignore the  _bad_ , as you put it. You must acknowledge it…  _We_  must… Lydia, look at me." With my other hand, as gently as I can, I turn her chin to face me. "This will always be  _inter nos_ , between us. It cannot be forgotten or changed. We can only… work together, meet in the middle, or…" I take a deep breath and fight the pain that begins to bloom in my breast, "we can part ways. I asked you to stay before, but… forgive me, I should not have been so… selfish."

"I just…" Again, so close. Again, measurable in fractions of an inch, in breaths. Close and far. Heaven and earth. "I'm betraying their memory. I stood over their graves and promised I'd bring the Dark Brotherhood to justice, not…" her fingers ghost over my lips and cheek and I shiver, "not  _this_."

An…  _idea_  comes to mind, a stupid one that I cannot ignore. It is an idea, a service I think I owe her. It is a feckless act of well-meaning, self-sacrificing, naive  _Amor_ , one which might prove my undoing just as much as it might give Lydia her closure. "If you could speak with them, now… if you had a chance… would you?"

She pulls back again, to my regret, looking confused and a little suspicious. "If I had a chance, yeah. But I doubt any of them became ghosts and I'm not going to Whiterun to look."

"I want to show you something. Will you follow me?" I rise as I speak and pull my cloak from my wardrobe. I am shaking all over; shaking with the knowledge of what I am about to do, and what might result. I lost Ungolim and what I am about to do might cost me Lydia, but now the idea gives me no peace and will only grow more insistent should I try to dismiss it.

"Show me what?" She is quick to her feet and fidgeting again.

This is her fault. Somehow, in some way, I know that my actions are a result of her influence and my lovesick stupidity. This constant want for honesty is sickening and painful and terrifying… and strangely liberating, in its own way.

I check the time: it is nearly midnight and the Hall of the Elements should be empty. Good. " _Sic erit; haeserunt tenues in corde sagittae_ ," I recite from memory as I open the door, wondering just how much of it she can actually understand, " _et possessa ferus pectora versat Amor._ "

"That was evasive and dramatic," she answers with a stern expression and crossed arms. "If you're about to try making them into talking zombies, I swear I'll never speak to you again. And the poetry just makes it creepier."

"No zombies, I promise." I gesture out the door, and after a moment, she follows.

"What, then?" I can hear it in her voice: she  _wants_  to trust me. She wants to.

"Thus it will be; slender arrows are lodged in my heart, and Love vexes the breast that it has seized," I repeat, but this time in the common language. "It came to mind, is all. An observation of my doings in elegant language, spoken aloud. Pardon me if you thought it unnecessarily dramatic. It is… you would call it… ' _an Imperial thing_.'"

"Doing  _what_?" … But she does not fully trust me.

"You said you would speak with them, had you the chance. I can provide it. No thralls, no necromancy whatsoever." The great wooden doors loom just ahead.

"What—what?" Her high pitch and urgency cause me to turn around, quite suddenly, just a little startled. "You're—you're gonna kill me? You're gonna kill me and you're announcing it and quoting Ovid?"

"Kill you?" I repeat, fighting myself to not shrink away from the sudden bulge in her muscles and the sudden luminescence in her eyes.

We stand in the starry, half-mooned dark of night, locked in some sort of impasse. There was a time when such an atmosphere would have been romantic, before I was unmasked and her inner animal unleashed. At least, now, she can no longer spit the word  _Listener_ at me like some sort of curse. It is a…  _small_ … consolation.

Then I grow angry: "I could have killed you in a thousand different ways in all our time together."

"What else could you mean then? You're gonna send me to Sovngarde. I'm not fucking stupid."

I turn away from her, frustrated and upset, and continue onward to the Hall of the Elements. "No."

I open the door and walk inside, and after another moment or two, she follows me. The Hall is all awash in the odd blue light of the Eye of Magnus and buzzing, faintly, with the sound of its potent, incomprehensible magic. All is quiet otherwise, free of curious ears and prying eyes.

"This orb," I tell her quietly, ignoring my frustration. "I said what I think it is, but not what I have seen it do. I have come to understand that I am the only one who can use it in this way, if I have heard Tolfdir and the Arch-Mage aright. In brief, it is a magical bridge to Aetherius, the land of the dead. It allowed me to speak with my dead mother, some time ago."

"Your…?" She pauses. There is a newly-torn rift between us and we both feel it, though neither of us wants to talk about it. "You never told me she was dead."

"It is a difficult subject."

"I guess it would be." She is fidgeting again. "I can hear it. The chanting and singing."

"I can make no guarantees," I say, stiff. "I have no way of knowing if my mother's appearance was some kind of anomaly. But if you want to try…"

"They'd see you," she says suddenly, finally comprehending my intentions. "They'd see your face."

"They would, yes."

"And you'll have to look each of them in the eye."

"I will."

"You're not nervous or afraid?"

"Quite frankly, Lydia," I take a deep breath, "I am terrified."

"Then why do it?"

"Because it seems I am more reckless than afraid."

"And I'll… I'll be able to talk to them?"

"Yes, though I cannot say for how long."

Three tense breaths pass before she finally says: "Alright, do it."

I steel my nerves all over again, then straighten my spine and raise my chin. If I will stand an impromptu trial, then I should at least do so with some kind of dignity. "I must siphon magic from it," I explain. "Put both your hands on my back, over the shoulder blades. Do  _not_  move them away until I tell you to, or we could be badly hurt. Do you understand?"

"Yeah."

"Think of your friends. You will feel magic enter your body, but I ask you to remain calm. It will not hurt you so long as you keep still."

"Why can't you just…?" She asks, hesitantly, as she rests her palms on my back.

"Because I do not know who is being summoned." I flex my fingers and prepare my body for the shock. "Or do you still think that I intend to kill you?"

She is silent for a brief span. Neither of us wants to discuss it, but it would seem that my tongue is quite independent of my will in this moment. She breathes a quiet sigh. "No. I don't think you would."

Now I am the one to be silent: I take a few moments to still my mind and accept her words before continuing on with the task at hand. "Think of me as a conduit. My own magic will tap into your thoughts while my body will shield you from the magic from the Eye. With luck, it will work."

"Will it hurt the baby?"

"No," I say as gently as I am able. "I promise."

"Alright." She takes a deep breath, unsure, but determined to prove her words. "I'm ready."

I open myself up to the Eye, my hand raised toward it, Lydia's palms on my back. My vision flashes white again, but I am prepared for it this time. Lydia gasps, unused to the sensation of magic in her body, but she holds still as I instructed her to do. Foreign thoughts float around the edges of my consciousness, full of names and memories that I never knew.

Then it is done.

" _Shit_ ," is her half-whisper, half-exclamation.

"Move your hands. Slowly," I say, and then raise my eyes from the floor.

There are four of them: tall shades, all of them Nords, three male, one female.

"You have to leave?" Lydia sounds sad.

"'Fraid so," says one of the males, "she's waking up. If she's awake through too much of this, she'll fry like an egg."

"What?" I rub my eyes, which for some reason feel rather bleary.

"Since when are you so smart?" Lydia teases him.

"I've  _always_  been smart, you whelp. Being dead's just given me a lot more time to learn new stuff."

"Lydia," says the female. Her voice is disarmingly gentle. "Give her a shake. I wanna say something to her before we have to go."

"No!" I call out before Lydia can obey and risk breaking the connection… which, apparently, is still active. "I am awake. Keep still, Lydia."

I meet eyes with the female. "Thank you for helping my son. I never could afford to send him to the College."

"Oh," I stammer. I have no idea what to say… what  _does_  one say in a situation like this? I was expecting hatred and accusations, not… an expression of gratitude. "Ah… of course."

"And you'll keep caring for him?"

My voice trembles. "He… he will never know any discomfort."

All of them are watching me, curious, serious, and sad. They study the face of the woman who killed them in cold blood, so filled as she is, now, with regret and guilt. "I guess I can't say anything you haven't already thought," says one of the males, almost as if he pities me. "You're thorough like that."

"You can read my thoughts?" By the gods, I feel so small.

"Like a book. It'll sound too contrite if you say it out loud, so best keep it in. I just wanted to look you in the eye, and…" he sighs, "I had some choice words, but they don't seem so good anymore. Thanks for not sending us to the Void, at least. Glad you weren't one of the really religious ones."

"We should go," says another. "If we fry her the world'll be short one Dragonborn."

"Still so uncanny, that," says another, "an Imperial-Dark-Brother-magic-using Dragonborn." He eyes me, arms crossed. "Just don't screw up. Enough harm done."

I blink my eyes and they are gone. The whole chamber is silent, as if nothing in it had ever stirred.

"Can I, uh… move my hands?" Lydia asks me hesitantly.

"Yes." She does so, carefully, and then I turn around to face her. Her eyes are red, her cheeks streaked with shed tears. The look she gives me is… strange. "What happened?"

"We talked for a long while. You had to stay knocked out because, um," she rubs at her eyes, "there were too many of them and it was bad for you. Something about magical projections. I didn't understand."

My gaze sinks back down to the floor. "I did not even notice." I am afraid to touch her, or even to try. I am afraid of what might have been said, or what she might now have to say to me. Part of me is exceedingly glad to have missed the majority of the conversation, while another part is sick over the idea.

"Amara," she says softly, and I look up again.

When she kisses me, I feel like it is one of my dreams again: euphoric, too much and too impossible to be real. Her scent crowds my senses, familiar and strange, weakening my knees just as her embrace, so eager and sturdy, brings me to tears. Even when we part, we remain so very close, lips touching, sharing breaths.

"What…?" I breathe as her thumb gently wipes at my eyes.

"Just…" We kiss again, drawn to each other like a lodestone to metal. My hands grasp at her shirt, weak with delirium. " _Gods_ ," she groans against my lips before I silence her again.

"What now?" I whisper when we stop again.

"I…" She pulls me closer, tighter. "don't know. I have a lot to think about."

"Such as?"

We begin walking, clinging to each other, neither of us wanting to remain in the Hall of the Elements any longer. She speaks again once the great wooden doors shut behind us: "So I… So I asked them if what I'm doing is dishonorable."

"And?"

"Depends on who you ask. A hardened warrior would say yes. A priest would say no. They asked me what  _I_  think. Answered a question with another question. I hate it when people do that."

"And your answer?"

She stops and kisses me again, warm and familiar, right here in the courtyard, under the half-moon and in plain sight. I find myself clinging to her again. "I want to do  _this_  and it's confusing. It's just… it's not about right and wrong anymore, is it?" Her expression just now, all wide-eyed and searching, is a rare and touching show of vulnerability. "I was hoping they'd say they either forgive or curse you, but no, they… just wanted to see your face. And you let it happen. Turned yourself in for their murder, just for me."

I give her a gentle nudge so that we might resume walking. My thoughts are racing and I long for the privacy of my quarters.

She continues speaking: "I just saw the people you took away from me and I should be ready to rampage, but it's just not the same. If you were anyone else I'd have wanted your death but… you're not anyone else. I've followed you to the top of the highest mountain and into the lowest pits of the earth and lived through every shade of hell with you, and you're just not like anyone else. I don't mean that you're Dragonborn. I mean that you're you. Everything's just… spiralled too far to be measurable anymore."

I open my door, still very much weak in the knees. "Too far?"

"Well, I mean,  _look_  at us." She shuts the door behind us and resumes her fidgeting. "You killed them right in front of me and I'm here making eyes at you. You're a master assassin, you spent most of our relationship lying to me, and you would've kept on lying if you could've. And still, I'm hoping you'll invite me to bed—"

"Well—" I begin with a blush, but she cuts me off.

"Meanwhile I'm a bad-tempered werewolf who's discovered the delights of eating fresh human hearts and you're still here, not disgusted or turned off in the slightest. I killed my own father for a Dark Brotherhood contract. I killed a little girl and you're still letting me touch your belly like it won't happen again. Speaking of which, you're the Dragonborn and pregnant with a  _magic fucking baby_  from me, a woman, who only trusts it's her baby because her werewolf nose tells her so. If anyone ever told me everything would end up like this I'd have arrested them for doing skooma—"

"But Lydia—"

"No, I'm not done. So then I'm given a chance to talk to the people you killed, the people  _I_  loved who died defending me, and they don't even feel like saying their peace because they decided it wasn't worth it. No, I'm only told to keep doing what I'm doing because it _works_. See, I avenged my friends,  _your victims_ , by getting you to choose me over the Dark Brotherhood. The end. No, I didn't cut the head off the Dark Brotherhood, the head just fell in love with me, grew itself a big goddamn pair of dragon wings and flew off. They'll be screwed without you and that means I win. And what am I supposed to do now? I know what you did and I still just want to sweep you up. I love you back. It's a problem. It's a problem because it's made me realize that I'm just as selfish as you are and that I'm willing to act like a milk-drinking hypocrite if it means keeping you to myself—"

"Be selfish with me, then!" I nearly shout over her as I open my arms in rough welcome. "I abused my power and lost my authority all because of you! I killed your friends in illegal combat and paid for it with an inadvertent heartbreak poisonous enough to sicken Mara herself and yet still I long for you, though you do little else but remind me of my life's mistakes. Now I stand here, having driven  _myself_  from the seat of Listener with that same guilt and longing, killing  _my_ best friend in the process, and still I want you in my arms. I am pregnant and trying to save all of Mundus, and yet here I am, falling into my own form of selfish hypocrisy—using the  _Eye of Magnus_  against my better judgment—just to show you how genuinely sorry I am for what I did. You have  _ruined_  me, Lydia. You have made me into this… this emotional, frustrated, longing wreck you see before you. So what say you, eh? What say you?"

"I  _said_  it three times on the way here," she says very quickly, just before pulling me against her once more in an insistent kiss. Her scent, her way of holding me, the feel of her lips, everything she offers leaves a sharp satisfaction in its wake, filling up the spaces left by a deep, needy hunger.

"Lydia…"

"It's not right or wrong, honor or dishonor or whatever," she says softly against my neck, "It's either I believe you or I don't. After what you did tonight, I… well I believe you. You're sorry. You didn't mean it against them personally. You threw your power away to save me. You want things to be different. You knew that calling them here might make me angry enough to leave you forever, but you still did. You knew it would help me think things through. They didn't forgive you and… and I don't know if I can either, but I… just need you. No matter how selfish it might be, I just do."

"And I you," I whisper back to her as I thread my fingers into her hair and kiss her ear. "Yes I chose you. I hope you know what that means. I hope you really do understand."

"I do, gods help me," she says between kisses. "I know, just… can I ask something of you? A promise?"

I press my face against her collar. I know what she will ask and my only surprise is that she had not asked it of me sooner. Though perhaps… recent events have given her enough proof that it is a promise I would keep for her. In truth, had she asked it of me any earlier, I cannot say what my response might have been. At least, now, I can give her what she wants without too much difficulty. "You may."

"Maybe it's a stupid thing to ask since, uh, you've already basically done it, but… if we are to stay together, I want you to vow you'll never be an assassin again. You won't go back to it. You'll do something else… you'll, I don't know, do something legal. And you'll do something to help the families of the people you've killed."

"If I do," I respond, slowly, gently, "I would ask you to try to make your peace with what I have done. Remember, Lydia, that we will not just go home and live quietly after this conversation… the chance is yet high that my task will kill me. If it must be so, then I… I want to die knowing we are at peace, that our child will be well cared-for, and that I am walking toward my death with something to fight for."

It is a confirmation that I need from her. Before leaving the Dark Brotherhood, my motivation for going to the Greybeards was the order handed me from Sithis himself. I could not, after all, refuse the wishes of the Dread Lord, although it was Lydia's influence that made me want to stay and learn and fight.

Now, however, I have only my personal interests to make me stand willingly between the preservation and destruction of all that  _is_. I am selfish, as she says: the world at large means rather little to me; indeed, the destruction of all creation could mean relief from my own pain. If despite this I am to walk with purpose into the jaws of Alduin to save it all, I want her to acknowledge that I do so for her sake, for Leon's, for our unborn child, and for Ungolim, whose memory I want to preserve. I care too much, it is mostly  _her_  fault, and that fact cannot be proven very effectively if she dies.

"Ah," she sighs, "I know, you have to save the world on top of everything else. Thing is, wherever you go, I'll follow. If you die, I probably will, too. That said… if I do survive somehow, I'll protect and care for her like I'd birthed her myself. That isn't a question. As for peace… we're at peace, Amara. Just keep your promise, save the world, and survive. Fight to make sure we have a good, long time to work out the rest of our problems."

_A good, long time…_ What a boon that would be, what a fine blessing after all this divine catastrophe, to live in absolution. "You have my word, then."

 

* * *

 

_22 Heartfire, 4E202_

 

"How do you know of Ovid?" I ask her as the question comes to mind randomly.

"Because you do." I lie propped up against a small mountain of pillows and she lies to my side, her head on my shoulder, her palm splayed over the wakened and kicking child, her eyes alight with a touching fascination.

"Pardon?" I twirl a strand of her silky black hair around a finger.

"Mm," she hums, trying to find a way to articulate her thoughts, "the language thing. My accent's a mess but, uh…  _Linguae Latinae loquor_. I understand everything you and Leon say to each other. Like I said before, you got a baby and I got a language… but your language, uh, the way  _you_  know it. What you know, I know, so… Ovid."

" _Everything?_ " I ask her, all while I can feel my cheeks reddening.

"Not your personal thoughts or anything. Relax." She laughs a little bit when the baby kicks just underneath her palm. "Strong legs. She'll be a hunter, for sure."

"A mage," I say with a languid half-smile. "She is a scion of the head family of House Aestus, magic runs deep in her blood. It is what gives us all our strange coloring, you know."

"Who's to say she won't pick up a sword?"

We meet eyes, content with our banter which, for once, will definitely not end in some sort of violence or other conflict.  _But are we really having_ this  _conversation?_  Tonight is for reacquaintance, for quiet and comfort. We must learn one another all over again, beginning here and now in the small hours of the morning. We both need this time, for many reasons.

"She could, though she would be more likely to conjure one than lug one about." I give a small gasp when the child kicks and it actually… hurts somewhat. "Or sprout teeth and claws and cause some small disaster, given her parentage."

"Ah, I hadn't even thought of that." Lydia shifts upward and presses her ear near to my navel. "Well, if it's like mine then the Beastblood will stay dormant unless something happens to her. Which…" her eyes narrow, " _won't_."

"The great  _lupa_  and her pup."

" _Pup_ ," she repeats with a small shake of her head. "No,  _kid_. I don't want her to grow up thinking she's an animal."

_Oh we really_ are  _having this conversation_.

"Ah yes, just an odd Aestus swordswoman bounding through the woods." Lightly, I trail a finger up along her forearm and delight in the subsequent rise of gooseflesh.

"You laugh now. If she's any kid of mine then she'll take right to it." She pauses a moment, then: "So have you… thought of any names?"

Truthfully, I have not. Plenty of other, more pressing matters have captured my attention for the past months. Not only that, but some small part of me still resists this whole situation, as if it refuses to believe that the child is really there and really growing. That part is also rather resistant to considering any sort of name… a name means permanence, identity. A name is a dose of reality, and it is a reality that still makes me more than a little uneasy.

What use is there in  _knowing_ this child, after all, if I am so likely to die amid an army of demigods?

So I avoid the question: "Have you?"

"Eh," she shrugs, her ear still pressed against my belly. She likes to listen to the heartbeat. "I figured you'd wanna give her some whacky Imperial name, so I haven't bothered."

What a strangely… evasive answer for her, too. Interesting.

"Maybe you could… name her after Ungolim?" Lydia sounds hesitant, and rightly so: this is still a very sensitive subject.

I frown. "No. It is a good sentiment, but that name is inappropriate for an Aestus female."

"Oh," she says quietly. "She's half Nord, too. What about Nord names?"

I respond with a sour expression, unable to stop myself.  _Of course I want to give her an Imperial name. Of course I want to_ name  _her. I have carried her all this time and of course I want to_ know  _her and it hurts and that is all your fault, too._

" _Well_  then," she teases, "Imperial names. If I ever have one, I'll name it like a Nord." At this, I give her a look of mild surprise, unsure as to what my response should be. At my silence, she continues: "Oh I know.  _It is-a unlike-a-ly_."

I swat at her hand. "Was that a poor attempt to mock my accent? I sound nothing like that and you know it."

"Not all the time, no," she agrees, "but sometimes, especially if you're at an emotional extreme. Most of the time it's hard to notice." A smile graces her lips, a real smile, as she listens. "It's the strangest thing. I can hear her moving around, punching you in the guts. I never thought I'd actually have kids but… in a way it's kind of exciting, you know? I'm looking forward to seeing her face." She pauses for a moment, lost to a thought. "But do you… do you really want me around her, knowing what could happen?"

"I trust you," I reply without any pause or forethought. "Even when the ring was cursed, you controlled yourself around me. I have no doubt that you will do the same for our daughter." My words, especially my declaration of trust, are loaded with a plethora of other, complicated, unspoken messages. At their depth they tell her:  _I trust you, can you learn to trust me again? I will keep giving you reasons to do so, I swear I will._

She receives the message; we both know it, even if we avoid talking about it any further. Perhaps that is best for tonight: it is a subject we have all but beaten to death already and all the turmoil has left us tired.

She moves again, now pressing her lips to mine. It is a wondrous thing, unspeakably bittersweet no matter how many times she does it, though it is not enough to make me want to stop. More so now than ever, it is a kiss so good that it hurts, and perhaps I deserve it that way.

Perhaps we both do. "… Thank you."

 

* * *

 

_Author's Note:_

 

_1\. When Fafnir says "Another Bellamont," he is referring to Mathieu Bellamont, who was an antagonist to the player character in Oblivion. He tricks the player into killing most of the Dark Brotherhood's elite members, including the Listener. The player must then expose Bellamont's treachery and kill him, which causes the Night Mother to name the player Listener. The correlation in my story is that, through Lydia, Amara is responsible for the deaths of most of the Black Hand and several others._

_2\. So yeah… about the whole not-Listener-anymore thing. I hope you guys don't wanna throw stones at me now. She didn't have some big moral epiphany, she just didn't want either side to die. And anyway, she'd already messed things up by constantly favoring Lydia over the Dark Brotherhood's best interests. I think we all knew_ that  _was coming! Aaaand I have no idea if a Listener can actually_ quit _. I'd assume not, and if Amara weren't the Dragonborn and on a bigger mission, she probably would've been killed._

_3\. The phrase_ inn mátki munr  _is real Old Norse and actually does mean "the mighty passion." It was actually used in medieval Scandinavian culture as a description of deep, strong, passionate love. I wrote it in because I'm a linguist and because... well..._  because! _... Sorry. xD_

_4\. For those who are interested: The poem Amara kind of quoted is indeed real. It's from Ovid's_ Amores _, book 1, poem 2 (a.k.a. "Amores 1.2"). Wikisource has given it the byline/title "Love is a Burden" (Roman love elegists didn't really do titles… so the poem isn't_ actually  _called that). Apt though, isn't it?_ Burdens?  _Eh? Eh?_

_5\. About the whole thing with the Eye of Magnus: I'm basically done with it now. I probably won't talk about it again. Ungolim can't be contacted because he's in Hircine's Hunting Grounds,_ not  _the part of Aetherius set aside for the dead. We won't talk to any more dead people because I really, really don't want to. Even with Lydia's friends… that whole scene was much less about her facing her victims, and much more about what she was_ trying to prove to Lydia  _by calling them in the first place. She's taking responsibility. She's facing shame on her own terms and she's doing it for Lydia. She's trying to give Lydia some measure of closure, even at the risk of losing her, because she_ cares _. That's why I didn't write some kind of informal murder trial. We_ know  _she's sorry. We_ know  _she's guilty. I really, honestly think that looking her victims in the eye like that, willingly, on her own terms, was more than sufficient._

_6\. I thought long and hard about how Amara and Lydia would come back together. That they would was never a question… quite honestly, I'm a big sap. But_ how  _was a little harder because of all the crap I had to work through. I didn't want it to end up as some kind of weird, hateful lust relationship. I didn't want it to be because of the pregnancy (and believe me, I am_ so sick  _of seeing that cliche in fiction). I also didn't want it to be because Amara stepped down (though that certainly helped… look, guys, there was just never any way that Lydia would have fully accepted the Listener… it just wouldn't have made sense), nor did I want it to be because Lydia's friends were somehow cool with it (again, stupidly illogical). So… I made it more along the lines of: "I fucked up, you fucked up, and we'll never be perfectly okay, but I really want to try because you're already trying so hard and I can't stop loving you anyway." Any thoughts, my dear readers?_

_7\. Amara doesn't have a ridiculously thick accent. She_ does _have one, naturally, because she's speaking her second language all the time, but it's not really strong. As to its actual sound, well, I made it vaguely Italian. It was the next best thing, as I have no way of actually knowing what an ancient Roman might sound like while speaking English..._


	20. Alduin's Bane

**Chapter 20: Alduin's Bane**

 

_1 Frostfall, 4E202_

 

Duran, my apparently-resourceful dog, sits by my feet. How in the world he followed us to Winterhold is a complete mystery to me, but I am glad that, at least, he has managed to escape any harm.

I had thought him dead up until a few short hours ago, when the sound of muffled scratching at my door pulled me from my slumber. It was Lydia's guess that he must have followed her scent and Ungolim's blood trail. Absentmindedly, I scratch his ears, a small frown already pulling at my lips. It was Ungolim who had trained him, and now I am forced to wonder what might become of him, should I leave him here.

"So what did you mean, what you said to the alchemist in Dawnstar? About nightmares?" Lydia asks her question with a measure of caution, presumably because she is unsure if the subject is inappropriate or not. Her eyes, however, are on Duran, and my hand as it continues to stroke his head.

I try to ignore her strange behavior and focus on her question. Its subject is a fresh wound and I cannot decide yet how to cope, though my indecision does not stop me from answering her: "There was an incident in Dawnstar a long time ago, a rash of nightmares that kept the townsfolk from regular sleep. It is how Ungolim and I first met."

"You first met in a nightmare?" She looks confused, her lovely green eyes fixed on my dog, her pipe held to her lips.

"No," I say with a small shake of my head, a little amused by her misunderstanding of all things mystical. "The nightmares were affecting the Sanctuary, too. We had only just taken up residence there and I was furious, thinking it some kind of curse for our intrusion. A little investigation proved me wrong and instead led me to a sinister old tower on the outskirts of town. I met Ungolim inside, who came  _very_  close to killing me with an arrow to the back, though I burned it before it could reach me. That won me his respect, so he revealed himself in peace."

"Why does it not surprise me that your whole friendship was based on him almost killing you?" She takes a long inhale on her pipe and then passes it to a curious Leon, who tries it once and makes a rather sour expression. She takes it back, smirking. "So what happened?"

"He had been camping nearby. The nightmares drew him to the tower in the same way they did me," I say as I rise and cast a small amount of healing magic on Leon's throat. "The whole interior was permeated by some foul miasma. He said it felt like that of a Daedric Prince, and suggested that it would be best to cooperate if we both wanted to dispel it and survive. And he was right, it was dangerous: there were pockets of drooling undead around every corner. Still, we fought our way to the source of the miasma and the nightmares, which was of course located at the very heart of the tower. In any case, everything made quite a lot of sense once I actually saw it: it was the staff of the Daedric Prince Vaermina, otherwise known as the Skull of Corruption."

" _Edepol!_ " Leon exclaims, though quietly. I retake my seat. " _Fortuna_  holds you in such strange regard."

Lydia makes a sound of agreement. "What is it with you and Daedric Princes? Most people don't even see one in their whole lifetime and you've seen… how many? All of them?"

"Ah, no, not all," I say with a sigh. "I would have been glad to go my whole life without encountering any one of them, mind you. As to Vaermina's Skull, it had been left untended for many years by that time and was therefore ravenously hungry. This was why all of nearby Dawnstar was suffering. You see, Lydia, the Skull feeds off of fear, thus the nightmares."

"A hungry, fear-eating staff," Lydia says with a small measure of disgust. Her stare still has not moved from my dog and I must resist the urge to question her. "Things like that should be destroyed."

"Only a fool tries to destroy a Daedric artifact. It will destroy him first," Leon comments.

"Yes. We agreed that the solution was to move the staff somewhere remote. Drop it into a ruin, perhaps, far from inhabited areas."

"You mean you didn't keep it and try to… I don't know…  _use_  it on someone?" Lydia finally meets eyes with me, though briefly, her tone one of surprise.

"Absolutely not. It would have made me its permanent victim and, especially at that time, my mind was unstable enough on its own. I would never have dared, not even now." My chair creaks somewhat as I shift my sitting posture. The heaviness of the baby has begun to make my back ache. "Ungolim wanted nothing to do with it either and I believed him, even though we were strangers to each other at the time. We had to move it. He pulled the Skull from its pedestal, looked at me with a very peculiar expression, and then fell to the floor screaming."

"It began to eat him," Leon says with repulsed fascination. "And you will say next that it bonded his flesh, will you not?" When Lydia looks confused, he explains: "It used magic to make him unable to take the staff from his own hand. It is like how you could not remove your ring."

"Yes, it bonded him," I reply. "It was ravenous, as I said, and did not want to be moved. It tried to make a slave of him, after a sense. It suspended his body and trapped him in an eternal nightmare, where he would have stayed until the Skull was satisfied. How long that would take, though, is impossible to know. I believe it depended on the depth and potency of his fears, but again, I cannot say."

My audience is silent, waiting.

"Have you ever had a dream in which you woke up in your own bed, feeling safe, just before finding yourself face-to-face with something you fear? And then, when you really do wake up, you must force yourself to believe that you really  _are_ awake? Well… as I watched him, I knew he might never wake again. Terror would break his mind first and then he… Do you remember Grandfather's delusions, Leon? Dreams and reality would hold no difference for him, only instead of dreams, he would have nightmares."

"At least Grandfather was laughing," Leon says gravely. "Our House knows the perils of the mind better than most. I take it this was your reason for taking the Skull from him."

"More or less." I meet eyes with Lydia, who,  _finally_ , is looking at me rather intensely. "The Skull was hungry and I knew, without a doubt, that it would not stop with him. It wanted fear, so fear is what I gave it. I just… knew I could pacify it. I took the Skull from Ungolim and re-lived the horrors of two-hundred years of Aestus scions. I think… there is no greater terror, no worse betrayal, than the betrayal of one's own mind. This is what I fed it. When I awoke—when I  _really_  awoke—Ungolim was still there. He told me it had only been a few hours."

"That's… that's how afraid you were?" Lydia asks.

"Yes, ah…" I pause to think. "To know from earliest memory that your own mind and body are destined to betray you… to watch the kin you love fall to it… it is paralyzing. You try to tell yourself that it will not happen to you… but then the first flashes come. Voices… visions… there is no ground under your feet, nothing to save you from falling in and out of lucidity, until finally, all that is left to do is laugh. That eternal nightmare… it never ends, and no one will ever come to your rescue."

"And the Skull?" Leon prompts, himself having very little desire to dwell on the subject.

"Buried, and the location will die with me. Ungolim swore fealty to me after this. Gods, I…" I pinch the bridge of my nose and resist a rise of emotion, having finally grown too nostalgic and sad. "I cannot… It is hard to accept that he is really gone."

Leon looks down at his hands while Duran presses his head a little harder against my palm, perhaps sensing the shift in the mood. Lydia looks… displeased.

"You lost someone, too, Dragonborn?" Asks the voice of a child from behind me.

I turn to face him, already numb. I recognize him because I am the one who sent him here, the talented young man whose mother I killed. My chest grows tight. "Ah… yes. A friend."

"I'm really sorry," he says with genuine concern. He does not know who I am—or  _was_ , rather—nor will I ever tell him. There is little use in it: he would only grow to resent his education here, despite all the good it will do him. "Hi, Lydia, good to see you again. Sorry, I wasn't listening in. I was going to a lesson and overheard the last bit."

I swallow my pain and try to show him a kind smile. It takes some effort. "And are your lessons going well?"

He smiles when Duran moves to lick his hand. "I think they are. I like it a lot here. Thanks, uh…" he grows shy, "you know, for sending me. It was real nice of you."

"Of course…" I clear my throat, gently, and straighten my spine. "Go on, then. No need to be late."

"Yeah I'll make it if I run. Just wanted to say hi. Thanks again! See you later!" He takes off at a run, waving.

I watch him go. He thanks me for what he thinks is an act of kindness from the well-to-do Dragonborn, who heard his plight from her housecarl and thought to change it. It is better this way, for as much as it pains me to pretend. I want him to grow up and believe that simple kindness does not first require immense guilt. I cannot give him his mother, but I can make him comfortable and make him believe that the world is not entirely vicious.

It has become more than just a simple penance to take care of him, because when I look at him, beyond thinking of what I took from him, beyond my deeds and his ignorance, I cannot help but to think of my own child… and shudder.

"Hey Amara?" Lydia calls me back, gentle, hesitant.

I turn and meet eyes with her, indicating that she has my attention, but I say nothing.

She takes my silent cue. "I take it," her eyes flicker in the direction of where Hroar disappeared, "you're resolved to leave in the morning. You won't change your mind." There are more messages in her expression. I can see them, but neither of us wants to touch that subject again, not so soon.

"We must. We have been here too long, already." My hands are folded together, my knuckles white.

"What about the dog?" She eyes him.

"He comes with us, obviously. There is no one else to care for him."

She begins puffing her pipe again. "He's challenging me."

I stare at her, deadpan. " _Really?_ "

She dips her chin, chided by my tone. "I'll… alright, you're right. Sorry." She clears her throat. "But more than that, I… I'm not sure if you should be travelling. I mean," she gestures to my belly, "how close to term are you?"

"According to Colette, a little over a month. But I am afraid the world will not wait quietly, so whether or not I  _should_  is irrelevant. We must go. Already the dragons have caused far too much destruction in our absence."

Her brow furrows. "I worry."

My damn tea is cold. "I suggest you postpone worrying until I go into labor."

 

* * *

 

_9 Frostfall, 4E202_

 

That dragons have run utterly amok, having grown bold in the month-long absence of the  _Dovahkiin_.

The road between Winterhold and Ivarstead is dotted with signs of destruction. The journey is long enough on its own, but the dragons are making it grueling: they sense my presence and rush to challenge me, believing themselves stronger. It is good, then, that my Thu'um is formidable and my magicks strong, as my actual physical body has grown rather heavy and slow.

We see very few other travelers. Fear has driven many people to seek shelter in the cities, leaving individual homesteads empty and many towns noticeably bear. I learned in Winterhold that, after an initial wave of panicked travel, inter-city traffic died utterly. Trade has stagnated and the cities are running out of food because too many farms are going up in flames and too many people are crowding the walls.

And all the while, the terrified citizens of Skyrim are crying for the Dragonborn.

I took too long in Alftand. I took too long and Ungolim died and Skyrim faces starvation. Many people have begun to think that the Dragonborn is dead. The few that do see me on the roads, usually after I have saved them from a dragon, greet me with a mixture of gratitude, anger, and fear.

So my companions and I ride our horses as hard as we are able. Lydia must force her mount to abide her, as she would rather endure  _that_  frustration than run as a wolf and stray too far from us. There are too many dragons, just too many, and Duran always makes himself scarce whenever one draws close to us.

All I know is that Alduin must be stopped. Paarthurnax told me that Alduin is responsible for the return of the dragons and, though I know killing him will not kill all the other dragons by extension, it will at least stop any more from being brought into Skyrim. But it is strange that I have not seen him since Helgen, given his obviously-high level of activity. It is as if he has been avoiding me.

If this is true—if indeed he has been avoiding me—then already he has proven how he stands apart from other dragons. Other dragons challenge me, unable to resist. My  _existence_  is an affront to Alduin, but he has evaded me all this time. I am not so arrogant to believe my many victories over his underlings are an indication of assured victory over him, the leader.

He is  _thuri_  for a reason, as I was Listener for a reason: something, some trait or fundamental property, sets us aside from the others. Only a fool would believe otherwise.

The whole affair of the Elder Scroll provides my second strongest indication of Alduin's uniqueness. It contains something, some piece of vital knowledge, without which I will be unable to pull Alduin down from the sky. As of right now, however, all I know is that I must bring the Scroll back to Paarthurnax.

I glance down at my belly and wonder if the world will even  _survive_ another month.

 

* * *

 

_13 Frostfall, 4E202_

 

We had no choice but to pass through Ivarstead. It is the only route to the 7000 steps, and moreover, we three are battle-scorched and in need of fare finer than just dried meats and bread.

" _Lydia?_ "

It was still a stupid, stupid decision.

"Oh hey, Klimmek, uh—"

"What the hell  _happened_  to you?" He pulls her out of her chair and into a tight embrace, his eyes red with unshed tears. "I… I got a letter that you'd died."

The force of his hug causes some ale to slosh out of her mug, which she then hands to me with some care. I, for my part, remain seated. "Klimmek…"

"You could've sent word, you asshole." He pushes her away. "You knew they'd notify me. I've been mourning all this time and you… what? Couldn't be bothered?"

She raises her hands, entreating him. "It's not like that. I swear it's not. It's… it's uh…" She fumbles, searching for a way to pacify him. She knows that she cannot answer his question: like me, she now has certain unspeakable secrets… though unlike me, she is a terrible liar.

It is good, then, that she has me: "We have been involved in certain operations, the details of which are not ours to discuss. I can only say that our circumstances made widespread contact impossible," I say smoothly. The best kind of lie is the lie that sounds like it says something, even though, really, it says nothing at all.

He looks at me with a small scowl, then back at Lydia. She seems frozen in place, completely at a loss. "You're back from the dead wearing some funny armor and your Thane's with child. Now you won't even tell me what happened."

"I can't." She begins to fidget. "I-I'm sorry, Klimmek, I just can't. But I didn't mean to do that to you, I swear."

"I take it you never went back to Whiterun, either. They all still think you're dead."

"Uh…" Lydia fumbles again. "N-No, I didn't."

"What the  _fuck_  with you?" He gives her a hard push, upset and angry. I look around and realize, much to my discomfort, that their little scene has attracted an audience. "It was bad enough losing Caius and then all this time you just let people mourn you. I bet you were gonna pass right through here without even trying to find me."

She just looks at him, her face a mask of helpless discomfort.

"I told you that she could not," I repeat, having grown frustrated with the situation.

"With respect, ma'am, nobody in their right mind would involve Lydia in secret missions. She's too twitchy and a shit liar. And, with respect, I get the feeling you're behind all this secrecy."

Duran, calm and alert by my feet, raises his head.

"I am," I say bluntly and cross my arms. In many ways it is a lie, but it is simple and strong and will defend her. "Indeed I am. You should be badgering me, sir, and not her."

Actually, I would daresay this is becoming a recurring theme for Lydia and I: her lycanthropy coming under scrutiny and my taking the blame. It is of little consequence to me, in any case. I say let the general public think what they will of me, so long as they fear me more.

Klimmek grows visibly indecisive. "I won't badger a Thane of Whiterun, ma'am. Thirty years in the guard has left me some strong habits. But… with respect… that was cruel, ma'am."

"It was necessary."

"I'm sorry. I'm just really sorry, Klimmek." Lydia rushes forward and embraces him. "Everything's been real messed up lately and… and I'm just sorry. Yeah I was gonna come find you… I was just building up the nerve. I didn't know what I was gonna say. I still don't."

"Why can't you tell me what happened to you?" He sounds more sad than angry.

I take in air to speak, now irritated, but Lydia beats me to it: "Remember what you told me that one time, when I was just a recruit?" She backs away so that she can place her hands on either of his shoulders. "There are just some things a good warrior's gotta do."

I raise a brow at that, though I make no comment. Perhaps even a liar as bad as Lydia might learn something at the feet of the Listener—ah but that, oh  _that_ , is something I would never dare say to her face.

He gives her a long, stony sort of stare, and then dips his chin in a weary sort of resignation. "Look at you, a zombie spouting wisdom. I took it hard, kid. It was like losing my little sister. I'm pissed as all hell at you no matter what you say, but… I'm still so glad you're alive."

"Be pissed so long as you don't storm out." She releases her grip on his shoulders. "C'mon, sit and let me get your first round. I'll… I'll tell you as much as I think I can."

She steals a look at me just as soon as the words leave her mouth, perhaps expecting me to remand her for her impulsive little promise. I merely shrug, however, and say in  _Latine_ : "So long as you do not inspire an angry mob."

"Yeah, I'll do my best." She sounds somewhat forlorn.

"And you speak  _Imperial_  now?" Klimmek then glances at me, remembering his company, and clears his throat. "Ah, I meant that without offense, ma'am."

"Indeed," is my somewhat dismissive reply. Anything to make him settle, discourage his audience, and let me return to my supper in peace. I suffer the hunger of not just one person, but two, and I would prefer to satisfy it without first losing my temper.

"What do you see in these Nords?" Leon grumbles to me in  _Latine_  when Lydia and Klimmek move to take their seats at the bar. He tosses a small piece of meat to the dog under our table before returning to his drink.

I must refrain from first making a teasing remark: his posture, all slumped forward with his elbows on the table and his hands wrapped around a cup of warmed wine, would have earned him a sharp remand from our late mother. "Rather little."

He just gives me a pointed look, his brow raised.

I return his stare. "Rather little. Yes, I stand by it. I will be the ever-baffled foreigner in this province no matter how long I might live here."

"With a pronounced taste for their lycans," he says with a smirk, his cup near to his lips.

"You asked my opinion of the whole, and it is  _little_ , lycan or no lycan. If instead your question really refers to a certain individual among them, well…" I lean toward him and lower my voice, though I know she might still hear it, "then I say your guess is just as good as mine."

Leon's eyes flicker up, briefly, in Lydia's direction, and then back to me. His smirk grows ever the more wicked. "She heard that."

I sip my drink. "Of course she did."

"You claim to be alien to this place,  _Mara mea_ , but you would be blind not to see that it has changed you. You… talk more and seem slower to anger. So different from when you were young. You were like a mudcrab—"

I toss a piece of bread at him. "A mudcrab."

"Yes, a mudcrab." He tosses it back at me. "So happy to hide like a hermit in your fortress of mud, barely tolerating two or three other crabs. Ah but pity the fool who blunders too close, for up you spring and  _snap snap_." With his hands and a big teasing smile, he imitates a mudcrab's claws.

My only reply is a sigh and a small, resigned sort of smile of my own. I choose to abide his teasing because I know how it helps him cope with grief. Ungolim's death was just as hard on him as it was on me, if not harder, and although he is not ready to fully confide in me, I can see that he wants to make his peace with it. If poking some fun at his younger sister aids him in that endeavor, well, it is certainly not the  _worst_  thing I could endure.

"Now you are more like a Burnt Spriggan."

…  _Though…_ a mere mortal woman such as myself can only have so much goodwill. "Keep up with your little analysis and you will see just how much like a Spriggan I can be."

Leon chuckles, now quite amused. "Yes, with your fire magic and animal minion, mothering successful little seedlings in  _such_  unexpected soil. Now the fool who blunders close might yet keep his limbs intact, but so long as he blunders away quickly."

I toss another piece of bread at him. "And where do you stand in such a grand scheme?"

"Too close, obviously, as my limbs seem to suffer constant abuse." He winks.

"And the Burnt Spriggan wonders why she had ever considered letting the blundering fool near her seedling to begin with." Now it is my turn to smirk evilly as he moves rather quickly from offense to defense.

He holds up his hands, though the mood is still lighthearted. "Oh now,  _Mara mea_ , you would keep me from the company of my miraculous little niece? She is a sign of change, the first clean scion of our House. All in one odd circumstance she makes me a happy uncle and a  _very_  curious mystic, so I daresay you might find it difficult."

" _Peace_ , you brat," I acquiesce.

"Will you really be well?" He asks quite suddenly, breaking the mood. "A month to term and you will still climb that mountain?"

I lean back in my chair and tell him what I know will best ease his doubts: "As well and fit as an angry Spriggan."

I am a good liar.

 

* * *

 

Lydia and Klimmek talk long into the night, and quite unlike the last time they spoke, I find myself straining to eavesdrop. Unlike the last time, I am not suffering a fit of madness. I am awake and lucid and the walls are thinner than I thought. Especially after the inn clears out and the innkeeper goes to bed, I can hear them if I concentrate enough.

As with most things, a little magical assistance makes quite the difference. I do not have a particular aptitude for magically enhancing my senses—if so, I would have made constant use of it in Alftand—but I do know a few small, meager tricks. I certainly know enough to fit my present situation, as the thin walls and quiet building do much of the work for me.

"You'dve made a damn fine legionnaire, the way you're always toeing the line between brave and stupid. Maybe you rubbed off on her."

"Maybe. I mean she really did, she… just marched right in there, knowing she might die. She knew the danger better than any of us. But she said she did it because she had to."

"Like I said, you rubbed off. That's something  _you_  would say."

"Yeah but it's not all a good thing. She blames herself for things just like how I do."

"For the thousandth time, those assassins weren't your fault."

"But I just think… I could have been as strong then as I am now. I could have."

"No. It was a shitload of travel and disaster that gave you the strength you have now. You wouldn't have found that in the Guard. Not then. You need to let this go."

She sighs. "I know and I… I have, mostly."

"Anyway that jester one got what was coming to him."

A pause.

"W-What?"

"Yeah. Got a letter a few months back from a friend of mine in the Morthal Guard. Sven. You remember him? A drifter found the jester ripped to pieces in some moldy old shack off the marsh. And I mean  _ripped_  to  _pieces_. Figured it couldn't be anyone else since no funny man's been in Skyrim upward of two-hundred years."

Another pause. I close my eyes, knowing all too well what she must be feeling just now.

"Klimmek…" Her voice is shaking. She wants to tell him and she knows she should not. But she proves to me, once more, that she and I are so fundamentally different: "Klimmek… that was me."

Silence.

"Are you drunk?"

"No."

"What do you mean that was  _you_?"

"I mean it was me… who tracked him down… and showed him his own innards."

Silence.

"You're bullshitting me."

"I'm not."

"You would never do something like that. There was barely anything left. What'd you do? Hack at the body with your sword until you felt better?"

"Uh… pretty much."

Silence.

"This isn't like you. You're lying."

"Like you said, I've had a shitload of travel and disaster. To be honest I'm not sure what's  _like me_  anymore. But I did it."

"Not a brutal killer, that's for sure. What aren't you telling me?"

"You really… think I'm a brutal killer now?" She avoids his question.

Silence.

"No… No if he'd been a man that did you no wrong he'd still be alive. You wouldn't kill a man for no reason. But… it's a slippery slope, even if you just wanted revenge. I get that. But now you really,  _really_  need to let it go before you do something worse… Did your Thane just let you go do it?"

"I did it and told her about it afterward. She was really… understanding about it, I guess. She only cared about  _me_." A pause. "She always does."

"You're crazy, and I don't just mean the sick vigilante justice. I mean staying with her. The dragons are destroying Mundus and our only hope of survival cuckolded you and made a baby—"

"Well—" she tries, but he talks over her.

"—and you stayed. If that's not the stupid side of  _inn mátki munr_  then I don't know what is."

"But it's not exactly like that."

"I have common sense. Beyond that, I know you. You're different and there's something you're not telling me. Whatever she's done to you… well, it's not leaving me warm and tingly."

"She isn't perfect and I'm definitely not perfect either. But Klimmek she's under more pressure than either of us can imagine. And then with this pregnancy… I'm not hard on her about it. I try not to forget that while she's saving the world, the world isn't doing much to help her."

"She fell in some man's arms even though she had you and she was stupid enough to get knocked up now, of all times. She doesn't deserve you."

"She… uh," Lydia fumbles, "it's just… not as simple as that."

"Well unless you're about to tell me you've been hiding your cock'n balls all these years and the baby's yours, I can't see it any other way. It's gotten so bad that now you're covering up for her. Aren't you worried at all? People are dying and their would-be savior's too pregnant to save them."

"I've… seen how people look at her, all angry that she's not saving their asses  _exactly_  where and how they want. I don't think she notices. She's always so wrapped up inside her own head, always thinking. But I've seen them. She moves mountains and people still aren't satisfied. They see her with child and they think she's not doing everything she can to save the world. Well. I  _saw_  her pregnant and fighting a small army of Falmer just to save one man. "

"Yeah well…" A pause. "It was stupid to make her go find that Elder Scroll herself when all the dragons are still up here killing people."

"See, that's what I mean. People expect her to be everywhere at once. The pregnancy has nothing to do with it. A heavy body doesn't slow down magic and it  _definitely_  doesn't slow the Thu'um."

"Are you really gonna stick around and take care of some cuckold's get? Doesn't it bother you?"

"You really need to trust me when I say it's not as simple as that." Her tone of voice indicates her unwillingness to discuss the matter further.

Silence.

"That must be quite a sight, eh… to see a pregnant woman kill a dragon."

"It's the strangest damn thing I've ever seen. The only reason I still let her fight is because she's a mage. She's got this… uh… magic armor… thing… that she uses to keep the child safe."

"Yeah right,  _you_  let  _her_  fight."

"Why's that funny?"

"Because you seem to think you're the top dog."

Silence.

"Top… dog?"

Silence.

"Yeah…? You know, the top dog? As in, the leader? The one in charge? Are you drunk?"

I try not to laugh because I know that Lydia will hear it. I am quite certain that she must be squirming in her seat right about now.

"I'm not drunk. Yeah, I… know what that is."

"Well I'm drunk. I remember there was a time when I could drink you under the table. That was before Aela and those Companions made a mean contender outta you. The way that woman drinks is just…" he makes a sound of disgust, "I dunno. I almost wanna say inhuman."

"Yeah Aela was… well she was something else, that's for sure."

"Any regrets?"

"No. We had our fun. But neither of us was really…  _there_ , if you get my meaning. She was interesting and beautiful but she didn't fascinate me, not like… Ah well." She clears her throat.

"Yeah it takes no less than a cuckolding Dragonborn to fascinate the mighty Lydia of Whiterun, body-hacking vigilante ex-Captain housecarl. I remember that lanky, half-starved little kid that walked barefoot into Whiterun all the way from fucking Riften. We all thought you were slow or something." He laughs with nostalgia. "Now look at you."

"You never know, maybe I am slow."

"And I'm Talos of fucking Atmora. You're not slow. You just need a priest and a good night's sleep. And maybe a hard punch in the jaw."

"Maybe. Either way, I uh… should probably go lay down for a couple hours. I have to climb that fucking mountain tomorrow."

They take a few moments more to say their farewells and all the while, I grow somewhat apprehensive. She will be able to tell, thanks to my traitorous heart rate, that I am perfectly awake.

Her boots creak over the old wooden floor. She had shed her armor some time ago and is dressed now in a linen shirt and leather trousers, all of it the rough functional attire of a working-class guard. Oh how naive of me to think I could dress her up in silk, the stubborn thing.

She pauses for a moment when Duran raises his head and regards her from his place in the far corner of the room, but acquiesces when I motion for her to approach me.

There is little use in hiding my wakefulness from her. She comes and sits on the end of the bed just to look at me for a while, so I look back. The room is quite dark, but there is just enough moonlight to define her face and body, and finally, I notice that her eyes hold no luminescence. In this quiet, sequestered little moment, everything about her feels very… human.

I embrace all parts of her, all aspects, even the wolf, but moments like these reacquaint me with the spirit that urged me toward such acceptance in the first place: the uncomplicated, driven, gentle, and straightforward human woman.  _That_  is the Lydia that reached me first.

The human spirit is more vulnerable, more sensitive than the wolf. The wolf can face me down. The wolf can channel all the pain and anger. The human side of her, well… I hold out my hand in a gentle invitation. Here she needs a finer touch.

She takes it, comes close. She knows I could hear her. There is little use in talking about it, or talking at all, really. I am much more content simply to touch her face, all soft skin and silent welcome.

_So I fascinate you, do I?_

The air all around us is charged with some peculiar sort of reverence, as if we both know how truly uncanny this moment really is. It is surreal: here we are, after everything, alone and pressed close together in the quiet dark of night. Never would I have dared think it would happen again, and certainly not in the way that it has.

I would never have thought that she would protect me and keep my secrets, moreover. She knows what is better left unsaid: my ties to the Dark Brotherhood, her lycanthropy, my family's history, our encounter with the avatar of Kynareth…

She fascinates me, too. Of course she does. She is wholly unlike any woman that I have ever known. The way I feel about her is intense and genuine and equally as unique as she herself. I have known love before, the obsession, the passion and possessiveness; my brief affair with Astrid was exemplary in this regard.

But this…  _force_  that drives me to Lydia is different: it is not used as leverage. It is not a weapon.

Astrid and I were locked in a constant contest of wills. I wanted to possess her because she was one of the rare people who did not abide my bad temper, and she knew this and often sought to exploit it. It was always there, amid the frustration and animosity and tension: the dangling question, the silent dare:  _I dare you to want me_. As ever, though especially with her, I understood love as a sick and frustrating obsession. I understood it as a fickle, infuriating tease, never worthy of trust nor comfort.

Lydia's lips are warm and her hands are gentle, though tangled in my hair. She is unique because she made me stop, pause, reconsider. We could fight and argue without pause, but our connection would never come into question. Neither of us denies it, its simplicity, nor its potency. I am still possessive and obsessive and unreasonable, yes, but there is no chase here, no challenge, no underhanded sexual warfare. No doubt.

This is not about personal victory and it is not about pride; had I wanted to retain my pride, I would have killed her long ago. Instead, I have offered her my vulnerability, willingly, no struggle, no second-guessing. I let her in and I let her color my thoughts. What is unique about her is that, instead of wanting the upper hand, I want balance.

So I concede to her and do things I would never normally do, not for anyone. She does the same for me. The proof lies in our current situation, her tender caresses and my easy reciprocation.

When I told her that she has ruined me, I meant it quite honestly.

She moves down my body. Aside from the occasional priestess, Lydia is the only one who may touch me, who may see me bared. She presses her lips just above my navel, then settles down with an ear to my belly, intimate and unquestioning, merely eager to hear a tiny heartbeat. My fingers brush lightly through her hair.

"Where'd you get your name from?" She asks me quietly.

"My great-grandmother's name was Amara," I reply at equal volume. "Leone is a… traditional middle name of sorts, reserved for the head family of my House. It has been given to firstborn daughters over countless generations, while many firstborn sons are named Leon. The tradition predates even the Patriarch, who himself was named Leon."

"Will she get that name, too?" She is kissing my skin again, moving back upward.

I have half a mind to push her in the opposite direction. "By Imperial law, no. She is… ah, technically an illegitimate child. But…"

"But?" My robes are pooled just underneath me, my arms still partially in the sleeves. She had made rather quick work of the ties, now that I think of it.

"But… with Cato dead, I cannot say who else remains of the head family except for Leon and myself. My grandfather might still be alive, but even if he is, his position makes him an obvious target. As far as I am concerned, the head family of House Aestus has relocated to Skyrim. It is little more than a name here, all legends aside, and no longer subject to the same laws. By this I mean… should I give her my name, I rather doubt that anyone will try to stop me."

"Will you? I mean… even with all the weight it carries? After… everything?" She stops her ministrations to study my expression.

"I think I will, yes. It is a heavy name but it is also her birthright, the laws be damned. And… And she…" I take a deep breath, "she has come to represent something more to me, and to Leon. She is the first clean Aestus in nearly 200 years. It is… I just…" I fumble for a better articulation of my feelings.

Lydia hushes me with a kiss. "I get it," is her simple reply. She kisses me again. "So, Leone Aestus. Now you just need a given name."

"You seem rather eager to name her." I finally begin to untie her shirt. I still have not dwelt very much on the subject of names, though Lydia has shown an increasing interest in the past week.

She takes my hands and fixes me with an intense look. "That's because I am. I wanna…  _call_  her something."

But of course she would force me to face the issue. I should never expect any less from her. "My mother really would have liked you," I say with a kiss on her cheek. "She never let me avoid anything, either."

"What was her name?" Lydia presses her forehead against mine.

"Corinna," I reply softly. It is a name I have not spoken aloud in years and it feels so strange to say, for as much as it tugs at my heart. "It was… Corinna Leone Aestus."

"I like it… for an Imperial name, anyway." She smirks. "Next one's gonna be named like a Nord."

I give her a playful shove. "Best of luck getting me to within a league of that tree."

"Worth a try." She unties the rest of her shirt for me, then rests her hands on my belly. "So… how about it, then? Corinna?"

I laugh a little, but it is bittersweet. "She wanted us to be great, despite everything. The curse affected her badly. Part of me is glad to say I missed the worst of it… though now I wish I could have controlled my temper and tried to comfort her when she needed me. I…" I rest my hands over Lydia's, "I think it would make her very happy, should I give the first clean Aestus her name."

"Corinna." She smiles and leans down to whisper to the child. "We'll call you Corinna, then. You'll give an old name a nice new shine. Good, too, because I don't have an alternative to offer you." She kisses just above my navel. "You're going to have a… very interesting life. We… your… Mama and I… we're gonna make sure of it. It'll all just be stories to you, Corinna. All of it. Dragons, a family curse, all stories."

My breast and throat grow tight as I listen to her. I cannot say when exactly I began to want this child. It is still difficult enough for me to believe that I really am  _pregnant_ , much less on the very cusp of real motherhood. But now I… I watch a scene unfold before me which I would see preserved and protected at any cost, at all costs.

I am well aware that all this is the result of divine manipulation. I should be angry, not…  _touched_.

"Amara," Lydia's voice is so soft. She pulls me as close as she can, all bare skin and human warmth and the familiarity of it nearly overwhelms me. "Can I…?" Her unfinished question is so earnest and, yes, nervous.

I look down at my belly and then back up at her, hesitant.

"I like it," she says before I can speak. "I said it looks good on you. You're my woman carrying my kid and I honestly find the sight satisfying. Maybe it's the animal in me."

"I…" I feel heavy and misshapen and quite unlike myself. Though the events of the past months have given me very little time to mourn the loss of my figure, it would be a lie to say that such petty grumbling is below me. And… personal vanity aside, my physical appearance was just as deadly—and useful—a weapon as a blade or spell, and I mourn it quite earnestly.

She kisses my brow. "I mean it, but I won't force you. I can see why it might also still be… uh… uncomfortable, I guess, what with everything that's happened."

"It is just strange," I whisper against her neck. "Too often, I dreamed of you and of being close again, just like this. Now… here we are… and I find myself hesitant. I… well…"

"Tell me you love me," comes the gentle order.

"I love you," I whisper without delay.

"Say it again. I need you to keep reassuring me with it because, honestly, what I'm feeling right now isn't too far from what you're feeling."

"I love you," I repeat, a little more urgent, a little heavier with other, more complex messages. "I would be blue in the face before I could finish telling you all the reasons why."

"I thought you said you had no idea why."

I give her a quiet, thoughtful little laugh. "You make me want to hunt down dragons."

She sighs. "I was hoping for something a little sweeter."

"I admire your strength, both physically and in terms of character." I kiss her and she reciprocates and deepens it. "You are… many things that I am not and, in a way, we balance one another."

Her lips move to my ear. "Any other physical things?"

"Where do I begin— _ah_ ," I gasp when she bites my earlobe ever so lightly. "A beautiful woman in men's clothing. It hides such an exquisitely feminine body, but I find that all the more enticing. You have such striking eyes, though I think I have told you this already."

"What else?" She trails kisses down to my collarbone.

"I love the way you feel. Interpret that however you will…" I breathe a hard breath when she bites down.

I hear her inhale through her nose and a low growl rumbles through her chest. "You're…" she inhales again, "I smell desire." She leans up somewhat so that I can see her lick her lips, her eyes just barely luminescent in the moonlight. "Can I?"

"And the wolf," I say in a low tone, my eyes locked to hers, while my hand takes hers and guides it slowly downward, "because it is a part of you."

"You're really not… afraid of it?" Her fingers know just where to go.

Secure in her embrace, I shiver and gasp and she strokes me, patient, savoring it. "I… trust you  _ah_ … completely."

"Talos above…" Her voice is husky, lustful, her gaze intense. "Just… the way you look when you—"

" _Eia!_ " I cry out when she pushes inside, my head thrown against her shoulder. She rotates her fingers in small circles and I rock my hips, lost to her.

"Say it again."

"I lo— _ah_ ," she thrusts and my whole body writhes with the sensation. "I love… you."

"Beautiful…" is her reverent response. Her thrusts grow more insistent, fanning me higher,  _higher_ — "I… love you too."

She knows where to go, what to do. I peak and crest and tighten all around her, calling my pleasure out into the darkness, all while she continues to stroke me, to draw it out. Her touch wanes gentle, then light, and then she pulls out to gently stroke the outside of my sex with one finger. "Tease," I say, low and sultry, against her lips.

She pulls me in for a deep kiss. "You have a better idea?"

"Mm, yes," I hum with pleasure when her finger brushes  _just_  where I want it to.

"Tell me." Her lips are on my jaw, my neck.

I push her downward. "Kiss it."

 

* * *

 

_15 Frostfall, 4E202_

 

Even with the Thu'um to take away the sting of the cold, the wind and snow are proving formidable obstacles. I dare not imagine what sad fate a non-magic-user might suffer on these crumbling miserable steps, as he would have no fire to melt a path for himself through the ice.

"Over there,  _Mara mea_ , that flat boulder there. That would be a nice place to rest." Leon tugs at my cloak with one gloved hand and points to the intended spot with his other.

"We rested two hours ago," I snap and begin to walk faster.

Of course, my attitude and walking speed do little to deter either of them, especially Lydia, who walks so close alongside me that she may as well pick me up and carry me bridal-style, though I dare not offer her the idea. "He's got a good idea. You should rest—"

"If I hear the word  _rest_  one more time," I threaten and walk faster, "I swear I will Shout you both down the mountain face."

"Maybe I could transform and carry you," she presses.

I shoot her a rather venomous glare. "At the risk of being seen by some unlucky pilgrim? And what will my dog do?" He is scampering all around us, constantly sniffing the air.

She cannot press any closer to me even though she tries. "I'm sorry… you're just so close to term and I don't want you to take any unnecessary risks. You can't even see your own feet. What if that makes you slip on the ice? You could—"

"I fight and kill dragons on a regular basis, in case you have forgotten."

"Well, uh…" she tightens the arm that he has rested over my shoulders, "you can't Shout an icy mountain into submission."

"Actually…" I halt quite suddenly as the thought finally strikes me, startling both Lydia and Leon, who cling to me like a conjoined twin and a long shadow, respectively. I cannot believe I had not thought of it before. With some effort, I wriggle out of Lydia's hold and brace myself to Shout, my companions immediately covering their ears. " _LOK VAH KOOR!_ "

This startles Duran horribly, causing him to yelp and try to hide under my legs. I hold him firmly by his collar and try to still him.

"What the hell?" Lydia exclaims as the weather breaks and brightens and warms before all our eyes.

"Actually, I can." I give her a sideways glance.

"Even the weather…" She shakes her head, impressed and looking at me with an intensity I know all too well. I flush, knowing that Leon can see it just as easily. She repositions my rucksack, slung over her own shoulder at her own dogged insistence, then gives my dog a sharp look.

I make an exaggerated forward gesture and look at my companions. "Shall we?"

"But are you sure you are not tired?" Leon moves back to my right, Lydia to my too-close left.

_Of course I am_. "No." My legs hurt, my skin hurts, my breasts ache and I have been casting Restoration magic on my back for the past hour. "Not at all."

"Maybe we should have brought the horses?" Leon asks.

"They wouldn't have survived the terrain," Lydia replies with a shake of her head.

" _Shadowmere_  would have," I snap, thoroughly frustrated with their persistence. Lydia flinches somewhat, then dips her head, though she says nothing. Really, I cannot believe that she actually managed to kill him. He was faster than wind and hardier than even the most rugged wild animal, and still, Lydia managed.

I grit my teeth and push the thought down before it can make me angrier, as I know I have little to say to her on the matter because my crime against her was worse.

It is because of this thought that, when Lydia makes to pull away from me and let me walk in peace—just as I have wanted her to do since yesterday—I grab her by the arm and keep her right where she is, damn her.  _Pick your battles_. "Stay by my side," I tell her quietly, though of course she can hear me without difficulty, "and please… try to take my bad mood in stride."

"Let me transform and carry you. Please," she says loud enough for Leon to hear. "If anyone's coming too close, I'll know. Please. I know you're in pain… I can feel it."

" _Feel_  it?" My tone is skeptical.

"Yeah, uh… I don't know how exactly. It's like a mix of vital signs and the way you're moving… a lot of it's in your lower back. That's the baby. Now please?"

"Please let her, Mara," Leon says with a gentle hand on my arm. "Now is not the time for proving your fortitude. We are all well aware of it."

I pinch the skin between my eyes. "Fine," I grumble, then motion Leon toward the dog: "Hold him, try to keep him from barking too much."

 

* * *

 

_19 Frostfall, 4E202_

 

Lydia is forced to revert to human form just before we come within sight of High Hrothgar. Really, though, I see little use in attempting to hide her condition from the Greybeards, as it would be ignorant to assume they cannot sense her.

At least both canines in my little traveling party have agreed upon some sort of peace. I was right to think Duran would be hostile to Lydia's wolf form, but fortunately, she made a quick assertion of her dominance.

Several days of climbing have left us cold and weary, especially Leon, who had to walk the whole way. He trudges up the granite steps of the temple, his back slumped, and all but falls through the doors, cursing the Nords in muttered  _Latine_. He leans heavily against the wall while Lydia secures the doors behind us, finally sealing us away from the biting wind.

We meet eyes when she turns back around. She has been somewhat cross with me since early this morning when I made a snide comment about fitting her for a saddle, to which she took offense. It was a petty thing, spurred on by my rotten mood and her insecurities about her animal spirit, and finally I begin to grow contrite.

Lydia breaks away and looks in the direction of the main hall, from which Arngeir appears after a moment. His expression, at first one of gentle welcome, quickly rearranges to shock upon seeing me. "Dragonborn… what in the heavens… ?"

"Paarthurnax did not tell you?" I ask wearily as I approach him. I had assumed the old dragon might tell at least Arngeir after my last visit to High Hrothgar.

"Ah… no. At least…" He follows me into the main chamber, my companions not too far behind us.

"Blessing of Kynareth. Long story." I give him the short version, having no desire to tell the tale in full. "I need to see Paarthurnax, sooner rather than later. I have the Elder Scroll and more than a few choice words for him."

"Now, Dragonborn, you know you should not approach Paarthurnax in anger—"

"And I should not be pregnant, in mourning, and newly returned from a month in the darkest pits of hell. Spare me."

We take two hours to sit and eat before we finally make the journey to the summit. Arngeir, at a loss for words and growingly increasingly wary of Lydia, whose condition he seems to have finally noticed, walks silently ahead of us. I cannot decide whether I want to apologize for my temper or not, so I say nothing.

I think he may also be allergic to the dog, as he suddenly cannot seem to stop sneezing. I would find this amusing if I were not already so irritated.

Paarthurnax's voice booms over the wintry wind as we come near to the summit: "You have it. The  _Kel_ —the Elder Scroll.  _Tiid kreh… qalos_. Time shudders at its touch."

He awaits us atop his crumbling Word Wall, and again, I must resist the sudden urge to assert my Thu'um over his. Perhaps I should not have been so critical of Lydia…

Duran is quivering and growling all at once, pressed hard against my leg as if it were some sort of lifeline. For her part, Lydia looks on with a suspicious sort of fascination. It is certainly an understandable reaction, given that her only experience with dragons involves them pitting themselves against us in life-or-death battles. I hear her mutter: "So they really can… talk."

Paarthurnax continues speaking while Leon conjures a crude seat for himself from the surrounding snow and ice: "There is no question. You are doom-driven.  _Kogaan Akatosh_. The very bones of the earth are at your disposal. There, before me, is the Time-Wound. Take the Scroll to it and learn what you must."

I pull the Scroll from my satchel. "I cannot read Elder Scrolls and I have no desire to go blind."

The great dragon shakes his head. "It is demanded by fate. The Scroll will comply with you.  _Dovahkiin_ , do not delay. Alduin is coming. He cannot miss the signs."

My breast tightens.  _He is coming? Now?_  "Order your Greybeards to stand at the ready. If he comes, then I need your full commitment to my cause."

Paarthurnax nods and shares a look with Arngeir, who takes off at a run in the direction of High Hrothgar. Lydia's hand is firm on my arm. "Amara…"

"I apologize for my comment this morning," I turn to her and say without preamble. "It was childish of me. I could ask for no finer guardian, or…" I move a little closer, "or lover. I hope we may be at peace."

"I know you're saying some indirect kind of goodbye. Don't." Her eyes shift constantly between my face and our child. "I wasn't expecting it to be now but… but I won't let anything happen to you." She kisses me, and it is neither tender nor forceful. "I'll be right beside you. Never anywhere else."

" _Dovahkiin…_ " Paarthurnax warns.

I take a breath and back away from Lydia, who unsheathes her sword and watches me steadily. Leon is on his feet again. He kisses both my cheeks and whispers a few words to me before stepping back, giving me space to circle, and then step into, the magical anomaly to which Paarthurnax gestures. I can feel it: no part of it feels…  _right_. It is something like a waking dream, or like some mind-altering drug. I am given an acute sensation of vertigo.

And though my palms are sweating and my body aches, I hold the heavy Scroll before my eyes and open it.

_A flash of light. Symbols, ancient, new. Timeless._

_I have not moved, I have not gone anywhere. Little wonder that Septimus Sigmus was driven mad: really, truly, what mind could become whole again after swimming upstream in the river of creation?_

_"_ _Gormlaith! We're running out of time! The battle…"_

_"_ _Daar sul thur se Alduin vokrii. Today Alduin's lordship will be restored."_

_A battle. Man against god. Bloody. Desperate._

_Challenge in the air._

_"_ _Why does Alduin hold back? We've staked everything on this plan of yours, old man."_

_"_ _He will come. He cannot ignore our defiance. And why should he fear us, even now?"_

_Desperate._

_I see them, eternally fighting for their lives against the sway of Time. Tongues. Ancient. Desperate._

_"_ _Too many have fallen…"_

_"_ _They did not have Dragonrend. Once we bring him down, I promise I will have his head."_

_"_ _You do not understand. Alduin cannot be slain like a lesser dragon. He is beyond our strength. Which is why I brought the Elder Scroll."_

_They are afraid. Terrified and brave._

_The black god crashes down, powerful, indomitable._ _"_ _Meyye! Tahrodiis aanne! Him hinde pah liiv! Zu'u hin daan!"_ _Confident._

_The small ones, mortal, desperate, they cry out to the gods: "JOOR… ZAH… FRUL!"_

_Impossible. Impossible to the immortal mind. Mortality. The finite. Pain, subjugation, winglessness, desperation._

_The black god screams and crashes into the snow. "Nivahriin joorre! What have you done? What twisted Words have you created? Tahrodiis Paarthurnax! My teeth to his neck!" His anger poisons the air. Like a mortal—this he now knows—he fights against the binds of earthly limitation. "You will die in terror, knowing your final fate… To feed my power when I come for you in Sovngarde!"_

_The god bleeds. This confuses him._

_The god bleeds. The mortals take heart._

_The god bleeds, but the mortals bleed more. They fall._

_All mortals fall._

I gasp. Have I been breathing all this time, really breathing?

The sting of winter is on my face, the crunch of snow is beneath my boots. My soul screams at the Words it has taken unto itself, and for the first time, truly, I am led to believe that I am indeed a wingless dragon.

I am a mortal dragon. I resist the urge to mourn, to wonder why Akatosh never deemed it fit to give me wings.

I am mortal. I have an identity, a purpose. I look up and into the realm of the gods, the realm that will never be mine to know, and I remember myself, my heavy, fleshy body, my diminutive size. I remember my great adversary, who hovers above and before me and engulfs me in flames.

I hear a scream—Lydia—just before they surround me, pleasantly warm. I Shout the flames away, and the black god laughs. " _Bahloki nahkip sillesejoor_. My belly is full of the souls of your fellow mortals,  _Dovahkiin_."

An arrow passes through him, as if he were some sort of ghost. Lydia is by my side, protecting me, desperate.

He will not have lordship over the sky if I must remain on the ground. I waste no time: " _JOOR ZAH FRUL!_ "

He screams again, just as I remember, and falls into the snow before me. "The god bleeds," I say quietly, and attack. Fear is the mortal's lot. Fear is what I feel, somewhere deep inside myself. I am vulnerable, extremely vulnerable, and cannot move very quickly. Without my companions or the Greybeards I would already be dead.

I understand, finally, that I want this god to feel the burden that is human flesh. I want him to understand powerlessness, fear. The Shout, Dragonrend, forces a dragon into wingless, breakable mortality. It is so simple. It is so... terrible.

_I have been manipulated_ , I Shout to Alduin and all the gods above him.  _I have been forced, tried, thrown into impossible circumstances. My mind, my body, all of it made subject to a will outside my own. Feel what burden you have left to me._

Alduin charges Master Borri, tears him in half, consumes his soul. Lydia dares not transform, dares not leave my side, and she and Leon attack the dragon from afar. My brother and I coordinate our movements, well-known, long-practiced. We dance. For two-hundred years our House has suffered at the callous hands of the divine, and finally, the divine will feel our pain. This notion becomes clear to us both, I think, as we cast our potent magic.

Master Einarth is next to fall, but not without a price. Alduin takes him up in his jaw, and on the verge of death, the old Greybeard Shouts and his whole body explodes in a brilliant flash, breaking the god's jaw and casting him backward into the snow. He roars, weakened and outnumbered.

Alduin Shouts for the sky to open up and crush us. The heavens turn crimson and flames fall all around us.

" _LOK VAH KOOR!_ " I counteract, and the storm slows.

"Irreverent mortal!" The dragon roars, bloodied, furious.

I step forward. I have nothing to say to him. For all this time, I feared him and his potential, just as I have always feared the might of any god. But this god bleeds, and all he has left of his godhood is his arrogance. I cast a spell of flame, one that will burn him from the inside out.

Alduin roars again and falls and I watch as his soul begins to fly from his body, racing toward me like the soul of any other dragon…

_"_ _She is waking up. Lady Aestus, can you hear me? My Lady?"_

_Blurred. Cold. Immobilized: my hands have been tied for nearly a whole day._

_"_ _Tell the healer she has stopped screaming. We should consider letting her move…"_

_"_ _Lady Aestus?"_

_She is beautiful and… familiar. She watches me with such kind eyes, standing at the foot of the bed. I can see my feet. Why is that so profound?_

_I gasp._

_I can see my feet. My belly is perfectly flat._

_"_ _Lady Aestus?" She is heartbreakingly lovely, with such striking eyes. Green eyes._

No.

_"_ _I think she's lucid again," says the lovely Nord priestess to someone beyond the door._

_"_ _Quiet, at least." He enters the room. I know him. Alduin._

_No, no, no._

_"_ _Do you know where you are, Lady Aestus?" He looks at me with the same menacing yellow eyes. How does Lydia not see it?_

_"_ _No," I say with such desperate menace. "Oh no."_

_"_ _You were dreaming again, my Lady," she tries to placate me._

_"_ _No!" I resist it, all of it. No. This is impossible._

_Alduin frowns. "Another fit. Tighten the straps."_

"No!" I am clutching at my hair, on my knees in frozen, dirty snow. The soul of Alduin is flying back out of my body, pushed out, forced away. "No, no, gods,  _no_." Tears stream down my cheeks. Lydia is above me. Alduin is laughing.

" _Meyz mil, Dovahkiin_. You have become strong." His soul returns to his broken body and he roars and I shake and resist the urge to vomit. "But I am  _Al-du-in_ , Firstborn of Akatosh!  _Mulaagi zok lot!_  I cannot be slain here, by you or anyone else! You cannot prevail against me. I will outlast you… mortal!"

The bleeding god retreats into the crimson heavens above us.

I cover my eyes.  _What if…?_  No. No, I faced Sheogorath. I cured our House. The madness is gone. Our minds are clean.  _My_  mind is clean. No.  _No_.

"Amara.  _Amara look at me_." She is close, so close. I feel her hands over both my wrists. I feel the raw fear surging just beneath her skin. She pulls my hands from my eyes so that she might press her forehead to mine and share my breath. "Amara."

I touch her, near-blind and desperate. My belly is round, heavy with child, heavy like an anchor.  _But what if…?_  " _Minime!_ No!" I sob and touch her face. "Tell me you are real."

"What?" She pulls me against her shoulder. "Wha—of course I am."

I feel Leon's hand on my back. His voice is grim. "You saw something."

"I cured us." I shake harder. "We are in  _Skyrim_ — We are—"

"Clean. Free. No, Mara. It was a vision, an illusion. His spirit entered you and saw your fears.  _Mara_." He pulls at my arm so that I am forced to look at him. "It was a trick. You knew it and forced him out."

"I was in the Tower," I choke out. "Tied. Suffering delusions. You…" I look back to Lydia and the sobbing starts anew, "y-you were my attendant."

"He used your memories, Mara. That was not real." Leon's hand is on my chin, forcing me to keep my attention on him. "He used your fears. It is the waking dream again. You are here now and this is real. We defeated him and he is in retreat. Please,  _Mara mea_ ," his voice quivers, "please… do not drive  _yourself_  mad. Please…"

I look between them both. I try to swallow but my throat seems to have forgotten its purpose. I cannot stop shaking.

Leon watches me silently for a moment, then gently pushes Lydia to the side before saying to her: "I ask you to remain calm."

Pain erupts across the side of my face, centering on the skin of my cheek. I think I can taste blood. I shout and bring a hand to where he has just slapped me and tell myself to take a deep breath. Lydia snarls, but does nothing.

"Forgive me," he says gently, "but you should find it will help."

"Thank you," I say before spitting a few drops of blood into the snow.

" _Dovahkiin_ ," Arngeir says with short breath as he rushes toward us. " _Dovahkiin_ , you rejected Alduin's soul. What happened?"

"He is in retreat," Paarthurnax booms as he lands nearby us. "He fled when he felt himself failing. Not even the heroes of old were able to defeat him in open battle. Alduin always was  _pahlok_ —arrogant in his power. This should shake the loyalty of the dov who serve him."

"Sovngarde. He left for Sovngarde." My voice does not sound like it should. "His final… bastion."

"But… mortals can't…" Lydia is still fixated on me.

"The  _Dovahkiin_  can. The blessing of the Horn has made it so. The touch of the divine. A blessing to allow  _Dovahkiin_  to cross realms, to fulfill their purpose."

"Sovngarde…" Lydia's fingers are in my hair. "A- _Alone?_ "

"You must find one of his allies. One to show you the path. But it will not be so… easy to convince one of them to betray him. Perhaps the  _hofkahsejun_ —the palace in Whiterun… Dragonsreach. It was originally built to house a captive  _dovah_. A fine place to trap one of Alduin's allies, hmm?"

I say nothing.

"Take strength,  _Dovahkiin_. Find healing in action, as the  _dovah_  would. Call Odahviing, trap him. He is strong and close to Alduin, but he will bow to your Thu'um, should you convince him of its strength. Rise,  _Dovahkiin_. Now is not time to fall prey."

Still I say nothing, but allow Lydia to pull me to my feet.

 

* * *

 

_I actually… don't have a whole lot of commentary this time around. I guess it's because everything's finally winding down… maybe._

_Ah well. I hope you enjoyed this chapter._


	21. The Fallen

**Chapter 21: The Fallen**

 

_20 Frostfall, 4E202_

 

"What's the Tower?" I hear her ask Leon from beyond the door.

"It is…" He pauses, likely gathering his thoughts. "It is where many of our House are sent after the madness takes them. They are kept from society and cared for by a group of priests and healers, all very much in secret. It is where Amara and I would go to visit our kin… on occasion."

"I see…" Another pause. "You both would've ended up there?"

"Yes. The inevitability of it would give Amara nightmares when she was small. What she must have seen yesterday… I understand it very well."

"Isn't there something we can do?"

He laughs, though it is small and sad. "I remember how she would creep into my room late at night, blanket in hand, and sleep at the foot of my bed. I learned quickly never to question her behavior, though now I do wonder whatever became of that blanket. She carried it everywhere. I would say we try to find it, but I wager she has it hidden somewhere already."

"I'd call that cute in any other situation." Silence falls between them again, briefly, before she clears her throat. "Hey, uh… I know this is a little late in coming, but I owe you an apology for attacking you in Falkreath. I hope you're not… uh…"

"Ah, no. Thank you, but I am not upset. Rest assured that, as a mage, I am more familiar with your situation than most.  _However_ ," he says with sudden sternness in his tone, "I must, in fairness, warn you that my sister, no matter her past or present deeds, is more precious to me than any other in this world. We have faced many trials together, Lydia, which has given me ample cause to grow fond of you, but should my sister ever come to harm by your claw, I will  _end_  you."

She huffs. "I've seen you in plenty of fights. Believe me: I know how to pick my battles, and you're definitely one of the rare few people I'd never want to face in a duel."

"Mm, and you are formidable in your own right. But it is good that we understand one another."

My bathwater is growing cool. I could heat it up with magic, of course, but I find myself suddenly unwilling to linger. If I stay still for too long, the world begins to seem hazy, dreamlike. I pinch my arm for the umpteenth time. It hurts. Surely in dreams one would be unable to feel pain. To be alive, to be present, is to feel pain.

I towel myself dry and get dressed. I can feel my clothes on my body—my heavy body—and I can feel the dripping of my hair on my shoulders, the small rivulets of water trailing down my neck, my back. I feel the pull on my scalp as I attempt to dry it, to bring it into some sort of order. Can a dream, a delusion, be so vivid, so detailed?

I want to deny it, all of it. I want to take a clean, uninhibited breath, and look upon the events of yesterday with lucid confidence.

When I took the soul of the World-Eater, when his and mine began to merge, he saw all my darkest fears. I want to tell myself: it was a ruse, a trick. I want to insist: the world of here and now is  _real_ , and my mind is clean, and all that I feel and touch in this little room is too detailed to be some madwoman's megalomanic delusion. I want to grit my teeth and know, truly  _know_ , that my spirit is stalwart, and not so easily fooled.

I pinch my arm again. It hurts.

Their conversation tapers off when I open the door. They have not left my side since yesterday, not even briefly, and I cannot decide whether to be grateful or terrified.

"Hey." Lydia rises and takes my hands with a gentle, cautious affection. Do I really look so delicate to her?

I kiss her knuckles. Common wisdom holds that the truly mad are often the ones who think themselves quite sane. I admit, I have never thought myself to be perfectly sane, family curse or no: behold how I find myself glad to kiss the hands of a werewolf, to look at her face and know her to be mine, and I hers. Could this ensure my presence here, then? Could this guarantee the sturdiness of my own two feet on this ancient stone floor?

For my benefit, she wears no armor just now. She is soft and warm and unsure of herself. Perhaps my behavior frightens her. I hope it has, in a way. I hope I have not simply imagined it.

Leon watches me steadily. " _Mara mea_ …"

"I know," I finish the thought for him. "We must talk."

"Can't it wait? I mean,  _shouldn't_  it?" Lydia says from over the top of my head.

Leon stands. "The dragons will not wait. Alduin will not wait. Mara, we…  _You_ have been rattled. This I understand, better than any other, and it is because of this that I will speak plainly: Regardless of what you may or may not have begun to question, you must see this through to the end."

"Don't put it like that!" Lydia exclaims. "It'll just make it worse."

Leon's attention remains focused on me alone. "You and I both know the pervasiveness of fear. Denial will not convince you to turn away from it, nor will reassurances. Time and action will, perhaps, but you must choose it. I cannot alter whatever might have bored its way into your mind, but I think… if you defeat Alduin, you will find a measure of peace."

"You're saying we should send her to her death. If she follows Alduin to Sovngarde—if he's  _really_  gone there—she'll have to go alone. I… can't let that happen." Lydia is shaking.

"Do you think I wish it this way?" His hands are balled into fists. It is a rare thing to see him truly angry, but I can see it as it begins to simmer in him. "If I could, I would trade my place for hers. I would—"

"Leon. Lydia." I pull away and stand on my own, facing them. "It is my decision to make, not yours to argue." I take a steadying breath. "Yes, what I saw yesterday has left me… scattered. No, I cannot stop the questions as they arise. Some part of me insists upon wondering if my present honesty is a result of trust in you both, or if it is because I am in fact talking to  _myself_ , and just myself. As of right now, it is a feeling which I cannot appease."

"By the gods, Amara, please don't say that." She attempts to move close to me again, but I hold her by the shoulders.

"Leon is right," I tell her simply. I feel her muscles twitching beneath my palms. "On all counts, he is right."

"So you will try to follow him?" Leon asks when Lydia dips her head, twitchy and at a loss for words.

"I think so, yes," I say softly while I watch my lover suffer the weight of my words. "I… dare not leave myself idle. Not now."

"But what about the baby? What about…" She trails off.

I pull back from her again and lay a hand over my belly. "That… remains to be seen."

"And there are a few other matters," Leon adds grimly, his arms crossed. "That we are now tasked with capturing a dragon is ridiculous on its own, but that we must use the palace of Whiterun to do so is… mad. Moreover," he looks to Lydia, "I understand it that you are thought to be dead."

Lydia's stare is all but bolted to the floor. "Won't stop me from following you there."

I shrug. "It will be easy enough to say that she was captured and held prisoner, and that we found her and killed the bandits responsible."

" _Werewolf_  bandits?" Leon challenges. "We both read the official reports."

"Yes, and it was a horrible experience and she would rather not discuss it," I say with a dismissive wave of my hand. "Do not forget that the jarl's main concern will be my request to use his palace as a dragon trap."

"And if someone should sense her?"

"Whiterun is crawling with werewolves," Lydia answers him. "All the mages know, by now, that they ought to keep quiet."

"Then…" Leon rubs his eyes, weary. "There is one final matter.  _Mara mea_ , are you sure you think yourself fit to descend the 7000 steps?"

"I have little choice… but," I muse aloud as the idea strikes me. If indeed I am dreaming, then I see little reason why I should not attempt it. "Perhaps we might be able to fly. I must go speak with Paarthurnax."

"Wait," Lydia takes hold of my arm suddenly. "Wait. I have a question."

I cover her hand with my own. "Ask."

"That… Skull of Corruption you told us about. You said it made you live out all your fears. But you got past it. What's so different about this time?"

"It is…" I grow thoughtful, but still move to press my lips to her cheek. "At the time, when I fed it my fears, I was… already mad."

 

* * *

 

_21 Frostfall, 4E202_

 

Arngeir is utterly scandalized and does nothing at all to hide it. I admit, he beholds quite the uncanny sight: his lord and master, the mighty Paarthurnax, is crouched low for the convenience of the  _Dovahkiin_  and her companions and her dog. He has agreed to fly us as close to Ivarstead as is reasonable.

Duran is struggling wildly, terrified of the dragon and terrified of Lydia, whom I have tasked with holding him still as possible, much to her displeasure.

" _Dovahkiin_  I beg you, one last time, to go by foot. This is just… inappropriate!" Arngeir is upset, perhaps more so than he would have been under normal circumstances. He has spent the past day in seclusion, mourning his lost compatriots. Even I will admit that the deaths of Master Einarth and Master Borri have left High Hrothgar feeling much emptier than before.

"Mm, no, I agree with  _Dovahkiin_ ," Paarthurnax's voice booms over Duran's constant barking. "I owe her  _ahmik_ , a service, for all she has done in my name." He rises from his crouch.

I grasp one of the spikes on his back and hold for dear life. Some part of me is thrilled at the idea of flying, but another larger part is all too aware of my body's precarious position. I look behind me: Lydia grasps a spike with one hand, and my struggling dog with her other arm. I pray to all the gods that he not try to jump from her arms. Behind her, Leon has braced himself, nervous but curious.

"Prepare yourself,  _Dovahkiin_ ," Paarthurnax warns, just before he leaps up and into the air.

Nothing in the world could have prepared me for the sensation, not even all the knowledge I have absorbed from dragon souls: the way my blood rushes from my head to my feet and then back again, the way the wind slaps my cheeks and whips my hair, and how strange it feels simply to breathe. Never before in my life have I moved so fast, not even when using the Whirlwind Sprint.

And all of it is wondrous.

Some part of me, some part both familiar and strange, feels the wind and the sky and begins to rejoice. Very quickly, then, I realize that it is the wingless dragon who cries out at the heavens Akatosh thought fit to deny her.  _How incredible_ , I ponder.  _If indeed I am dreaming, then may I never wake._

I look behind me again: Duran is still struggling, but it seems Lydia's grip is still firmer. She herself appears to be shouting something to me, but I cannot hear her over the sound of the wind. I can see, however, that she looks somewhat ill. Behind her, Leon is looking all about himself with a terrified sort of fascination.

I cannot help but to feel disappointed when, too soon, Paarthurnax comes to a graceful landing on a grassy field some distance from Ivarstead. The flight had been fast— _very_  fast—covering in a quarter of an hour what would have taken us days. As my feet touch the ground, I am thrilled, disappointed, and awed.

Duran springs from Lydia's arm just as she herself topples onto the grass, groaning, Leon easing himself down beside her. She holds her hand over her mouth and puts up a valiant fight against what seems to be a strong case of motion sickness.

Paarthurnax rears back to his full height. "You will be victorious,  _Dovahkiin_. It is written in the stars."

I watch him fly away, already mourning the sky.

 

* * *

 

_27 Frostfall, 4E202_

 

We kill a dragon just outside of Whiterun. The land has grown disturbingly desolate: the nearby farms look to have been all but abandoned for the safety of the city walls. In such a landscape, the small band of city guards who come running seem a peculiar sight.

Lydia sheathes her sword and brushes her hair from her face, then comes to stand close to me. I took care to wear a heavy and billowing cloak today: it hides my belly surprisingly well and will help me to avoid too many bothersome—and unwanted—questions.

One of the guards, presumably the commanding officer, steps forward: "Is that you… Dragonborn?"

"Yes. It is urgent that I speak with the jarl. I ask that one of you run to Dragonsreach now to announce me."

The guard turns to one of his fellows and gestures, and the man takes off at an impressive sprint.

"Lydia…?" Another guard steps forward, taking off his helmet. His face is painted with astonishment. "They… They said you were dead."

"No, uh…" She tries not to let her body language betray her. "Long story. But no, not dead."

I cut into the conversation before she can find some way to incriminate herself: "I have journeyed long and encountered several dragons on my way here. My business is pressing and I require rest. You may provide escort to Dragonsreach, should you wish, but we must keep moving."

"O-Of course, ma'am," says the lead guard, also removing his helmet. "Erik, Karl, take the Dragonborn's horses to the stables. Report to Dragonsreach when you're finished."

The man who takes my horse pulls off his helmet and gives me a wide smile as I dismount. His face seems… vaguely familiar. "You know, when we met in Rorikstead, you never mentioned you were the Dragonborn. No one would believe me when I told them you'd helped me buy my first set of armor."

I do a double-take. "The young man from the inn," I finally recall.

"You remember me! I bet no one'll believe this either. But it's thanks to you that I got enough experience to join the guard. And…" he leans in a little closer, "You should know I don't care what anyone says. I know you're doing everything you can to save Skyrim, no matter where you go or what you do."

"Oh, ah…" I intone, unsure how to give a proper response. "Well… thank you."

He pauses a moment, fumbling with the reigns still clutched in his hands. "Uh… I'm sure you're busy, ma'am, but uh…" he blushes, "if you'd like, I'd feel honored to buy you a round or two. It's the least I could do—"

His eyes suddenly widen, fixated on something just behind me, and he takes two small steps backward.

"The Dragonborn has somewhere to be," says an icy voice from over my shoulder. I turn to face my jealous, bristling werewolf, and lay a hand on her arm to appease her. Provided a small spark of magic, I daresay the glare on her face could shatter the poor boy like glass.

"Y-Yes, ma'am. Sorry ma'am." He salutes us and hurries away with my horse, leading it to the furthest possible stable from Lydia and myself.

Lydia stares after him until I give her a small shake. "Come now, he is only a boy."

"A boy with intentions," she says with a scowl.

I cannot help myself: I laugh. It feels so good to do. "He is handsome for his age, though my last time with a man was so long ago that I fear I would not know where to begin."

"Wait…  _what_?" She follows me as I begin to walk toward the city gates. "You're just teasing me, right? … Amara?" I laugh again and take her hand into mine. "It's not funny!"

I pull her close beside me. "The matter itself, no.  _You_ , however…"

"How am  _I_  funny?" She lowers her voice. "I could've killed him."

I quirk a brow. "Will you make a habit of threatening every man who attempts to speak with me?"

"Or woman—hey!" She exclaims when I give her a little shove.

"If you could see yourself through my eyes," I say softly, just as we are passing through the city gates, "you would never feel such an impulse. You must realize that, when I say I love you, I mean that I will never express this feeling again, not to anyone else. Those words… from me… are yours now."

She falls silent. When finally I glance over at her, I see her blush as it extends from the tips of her ears to the base of her neck. After another moment, she releases a long exhale. "By the gods, just… the way you  _talk_. How do you  _do_  that?"

I merely smile… and then realize that our entire escort has taken to blatant staring. This leads me to wonder if Lydia and I are much of an oddity: it is well-known, even by a foreigner like myself, that many thanes and housecarls tend to enter into sexual liaisons of various forms. I must wonder, however, if deeper relationships are uncommon.

"I can't believe we're about to walk back into Dragonsreach together… after… everything," she continues after a few breaths.

I squeeze her arm. "How do you feel?"

"I'm…" Her gloved hand covers my own. "I'm… okay. It's how I wanna be. It's how I'm gonna be. You?"

I walk as if in a dream, my hand cradled in the arm of the woman who has colored me to the depths of my spirit, smiling, going willingly to my doom so that I might save her. This is the woman whom I have wronged, lost, and found again. If I dream, let me never wake. "I am ready."

Our walk to Dragonsreach continues on in silence after this, but the silence is comfortable. Both of us can feel the significance of this moment, the events and hardships and compromises that have led us back to these massive wooden doors. The last time we passed through them, we were but Listener and guard, thane and housecarl.

The throne room is empty but for a few interested attendants. It would seem that the jarl has cleared it for my arrival. Though seated in his throne, I can see his tension. I imagine he has been incredibly troubled in recent months.

"Dragonborn," he says in a clipped tone, "I admit I was surprised to hear that you were at my gates."

"I have come to request your aid for a very urgent matter," I reply without ceremony. I expected that he would greet me in this manner, given my supposed disappearance and the current state of his hold.

His fingers drum on the armrest of his seat. "You come to  _me_  requesting aid. I have no aid to give, not after an army of dragons have burned my hold and slaughtered my people."

I ignore his bait. He wants me to explain my absence and apologize. Grovel, perhaps. I would sooner laugh in his face. "You can indeed. I need to use your palace to capture a dragon."

He just stares at me, silently, for what feels like a full minute. Then he begins to laugh. It is low at first, quiet, and then escalates by degrees. "I have heard you are a madwoman. How reassuring to see it confirmed."

I scowl. "I am quite serious."

His hands ball into fists. "What do you make of me, eh? After you ignored all our cries for help, you think you can come here and convince me to risk burning Whiterun to the ground? The people are already deprived of food. You'd deprive them of shelter, too?"

"You blame me," I sneer, "for all your misfortunes. Do so if it makes you think you are a competent ruler. But if you do not cooperate with me, you will lose much more than your hold."

"You  _threaten_  me in my own palace—"

"Alduin has returned, you blasted fool! It was  _he_  who destroyed Helgen and it is  _he_  who is responsible for the return of the dragons. If you do not help me then all the world may blame  _you_  for its ultimate demise!"

His jaw drops in astonishment. "Alduin…? The World-Eater himself? But… how are we supposed to fight him? Doesn't his return mean it's the end times?"

"It will if you should continue to refuse me."

He shoots up and out of his seat, tense and angry, and begins to pace. "They're just too many. No one can kill them but you! Where  _were_  you all this time? Why should I trust you?"

"At the Greybeards' bidding, I was delving ancient ruins that haunt my darkest dreams still, searching for a way to pull Alduin down from the sky."

He glares at me. "And did you?"

I return his glare. "Yes."

"My jarl, are you really considering this?" Irileth, his housecarl, asserts. "You want to trust them after they've left us to burn and betrayed your court?"

" _Betrayed_  your court?" I challenge.

"Yes." She points to someone behind me, to Lydia. "You should be dead."

"What?" Balgruuf stops and finally  _notices_  her. "What… are you doing here? The Imperials said you were killed."

"I wasn't," she replies stiffly. I imagine this must be very… uncomfortable for her.

His eyes narrow. "Then where were you? You know well that faking your own death is a grievous crime in my hold."

" _Really_ , Balgruuf?" I shout and step between them. "She was captured and held prisoner! You want to interrogate her on the horrors she endured instead of helping me to save all creation? Is  _this_  how you would safeguard your people?"

"Captured—?"

"Will you help me or not?" I cut him off, frustrated and unwilling to let him focus on Lydia.

His face falls into his hands. I can see that he is equally frustrated, stressed and poorly-rested. "Give me some time. A few days."

"Are you not listening—"

"I  _am_  listening, Dragonborn. I need you to give me a few days' time to think."

"I'd suggest more than a few." Irileth, haughty and unbearable, eyes me up and down. "You cannot hide it from everyone, Dragonborn. It should be any day now."

My nails are digging into my palms, so tight are my fists.

"By the gods, what  _else_  is it now?" Balgruuf all but falls back into his seat.

"She is with child."

He scrutinizes me. "You are with child? Now? Of all times? Now?"

"I am. And before you make further accusations against my character, I would invite you to ask Danica Pure-Spring about what has happened to me." I feel Lydia's presence, just behind me, protective and attentive.

"I just might." His fingers resume their drumming. "I will send word when I'm ready to discuss this again. Where will you be staying?"

"The Bannered Mare." I turn on my heel, eager to leave. But over my shoulder, I add: "I urge you not to delay."

"We will see," I hear him grumble, more to himself than to me. "We will see."

 

* * *

 

_29 Frostfall, 4E202_

 

Danica Pure-Spring leans over me, her hands lightly touching my belly. "I'm surprised to say Irileth was right. It will be any day now. How are you feeling?"

"Heavy," I answer honestly. "Immobile."

"Believe it or not, those are good signs. It means the baby is ready for birth." She cleans her hands with a hot towel and takes a chair to sit across from me. Lydia leans against a nearby wall and watches us.

"Yes, well…" I rest a hand over my belly. "I find it hard to believe, given all that my body has endured. Do you… Do you think that all my trials might have affected her negatively, in some way?"

Danica folds her hands. "I cannot say. You seem healthy enough, despite all you have endured. But that is not something I could predict."

"I see." I meet eyes with Lydia.

"She is strong," Danica says gently, drawing my attention back to her. "Her mothers are strong, and so will she be. And she is Kynareth's blessing, so please, give yourself some peace."

I nod, complacent, a little hungry, and a little sleepy. Whiterun has not suffered quite as badly as the other holds in terms of the food supply, though while there is enough to keep the people from true starvation, there is not enough to leave any single person feeling well-fed.

"Shall I leave you to rest?" Danica asks as she rises from her seat. "I think the jarl will take some time yet. That is what I gathered, at least, from my conversation with him this morning. I suggest you use it to prepare yourself for all that lies ahead. Let your body relax and restore itself." She moves toward the door. "And may I speak with you, Lydia? Just for a moment?"

Lydia looks to me. "Go on," I tell her as I rise from my own chair and move to the bed. "I will not go anywhere."

I doze off almost as soon as they exit the room, and only come awake again when I feel Lydia's warmth at my back and her fingers in my hair.  _How could she be anything but real? How?_

"You don't need to wake up. It's fine." Her lips brush against the back of my neck.

_I do not want to_. "What did she want?" I say sleepily.

"Eh, parenting stuff. Werewolf stuff. You're-not-actually-dead-stuff. Last one's been happening a lot."

"Does this surprise you?"

"No, I guess not. But I get so tongue-tied when people ask me about it."

"Because they imprisoned you and it was horrible. You cannot speak of what you endured." I pull her arm over my shoulders.

"I'm just not a smooth talker like you. Can't do it."

"Mm," I pat her hand lightly, "you have other talents."

"Do I?"

I yawn. "In spades."

"I just… wish I could talk like you, though. No one but you's ever made me blush with words alone."

"Mm, and no one but you has ever made me want to speak like that."

She falls silent for a moment, then: "But there's so much that I still don't know about you."

I peek at her from over my shoulder. "What do you want to know?"

"Hmm," she hums and kisses my ear. "What were you like as a kid?"

"Quiet, reclusive…" I pause to think. "Always reading. What about you?"

"Bitter," is her quiet response. "Always hungry. A lot of kids there were."

"How did you find yourself in the Whiterun Guard?"

"I thought I was the one asking questions."

"Not anymore."

She kisses me again. "I was fifteen. Ran away from Honorhall with just the clothes on my back. I wandered the road for days until one of those Khajiit caravans found me. I'd eaten a bad plant and was sick. They nursed me back to health and let me follow them to Whiterun. I wandered the streets there for a few days before Klimmek tried to arrest me, but I punched him so hard it nearly broke his jaw. He was so impressed, he told Caius I was seventeen and convinced him to put me through training." She laughs to herself. "He was so pissed when he found out my real age, years later."

"I…"  _I want to beg your forgiveness. I want to change all that I have done to you. I want to atone._ "I will take care of you now. You will never be hungry or cold or wanting ever again, not if I can help it."

"Just come back," she replies quietly.

 

* * *

 

_3 Sun's Dusk, 4E202_

 

It happens just as Lydia, Leon and I exit the inn to answer the summons of Jarl Balgruuf.

I had awoken feeling strange. The jarl's summons had been curt, just bordering on the impolite, and had left me scowling before I had even the chance to finish my morning ablutions. The man had proven insufferable, and I felt different. Strange.

But all becomes clear in a matter of seconds, out in the daylit open, on one of the main streets of Whiterun: sudden discomfort of an… extreme sort, and a clear liquid running down my legs.

I stop, doubled over. Lydia stops. Leon stops. Even  _Duran_  stops.

Then, suddenly, all my surroundings seem to break into some sort of chaos.

In the next instant, I find myself being carried, bridal-style in Lydia's arms, as she makes a mad rush toward the Temple of Kynareth, Leon close behind her.

"Lydia, put me down!" I hiss. "Human women cannot do what you are doing right now—"

"Fuck 'em," she  _leaps_  up the steps to the Wind District. "Seriously, Amara, love, fuck them all." She kicks open the Temple doors—or more accurately, nearly kicks them off their hinges—and shouts for Danica.

And then, just as quickly, I find myself in a private room, surrounded by a small army of chattering Nord women, stripped to my shift, my hair tied tight behind me, seated on some sort of cushion with some sort of pungent tea in my hand. Lydia is already in the process of pulling off her armor and Leon and Duran are well on their way to being pushed out of the room. I give my brother a half-hearted wave, confused and surrounded by unfamiliar hands.

Many of them are speaking a dialect I know to be native to Whiterun, though I am otherwise unfamiliar with it. An old crone taps on my teacup. " _Trinke_."

I sniff the tea again, unable to decide if I find it unpleasant. "Drink?" I attempt for clarification.

"We all know the common language, sisters! No need to torture the poor girl any more than is necessary," Danica chides her fellows with a laugh. "Now, Amara, have you ever witnessed a birth?"

" _Ngh_ —no," I say with a painful grunt.

She quirks a brow. "Do you… know what will happen?"

"Well  _of course_." I can already feel my cheeks growing red. "I have… read about it."

"Drink the tea."

I finally sip at it. It is bitter and sour all at once, and tastes like sick. I thrust the cup back at her. "No. No, it is  _foul_."

Danica leans in close to whisper in my ear. "It is Nordic custom. It is very rude not to drink it."

I narrow my eyes at her. "Is it a drug?"

"No, just a mixture of herbs."

I double over again, able to feel the burning sensation all the way to my knees. "Then what the  _hell_  does it do?"

"Honestly?" She smiles. "Nothing."

"Then  _why_  should I—"

"Please?" Lydia is by my side as soon as two of the old women allow her to be, and my face is pressed to her neck before I can stop myself. "The custom's old…  _really_  old. Some say it's older than the Nords themselves. The herbs are thought to be lucky."

I pull away from her with a glare sharp enough to cut stone, and then, with a firm grip on her shoulder, I hold my breath and down the cup in one single, revolting series of gulps. I must struggle, thereafter, just to keep it down.

"There," I growl through gritted teeth, "I am both in labor  _and_  nauseated. I will not be sorry if that foul brew comes back up."

"Eh, it is known to happen." Danica shrugs just before her hands light up with magic. "Your body is preparing itself. For now, we must be patient."

" _How_  patient?" I double over again as a fresh wave of pain spikes in my abdomen.

"Until the pain becomes constant. It is a matter of hours for some, a whole day for others, but these things cannot be forced."

"A curse upon  _Fortuna_ ," I grunt as I try to keep breathing through my nose. Danica and her fellows, at least, have moved somewhat away from me, all of them settling somewhere in the room to keep watch and wait.

Lydia brushes a stray wisp of hair from my brow. "It'll be fine. I'll stay right here and we can talk to pass the time. I've never seen a live birth either, you know. Are you really in much pain right now?"

I give her a terrible, withering look.

She backs away a little at that and raises her hands in deference. "Stupid question… Sorry."

"Just talk, if you must. No questions."

"Okay… okay, uh, well… you look different with your hair like that. I've seen you braid it plenty of times, but I've never seen it tied back so tight before. It's different."

I raise a brow.

" _Good_  different, of course," she corrects hastily. "I mean, there's no way you need me to tell you how beautiful you are. You know that already. Hell, all of Skyrim knows it. You should see the way you turn heads when you walk down a street."

"Now you are just pandering."

"Not even a little bit. I'm just speaking my mind."

"Then please do speak of something else. Right now I feel  _very_  far from beautiful."

"Okay…" Her eyes dart about the room as she searches for a topic. She lowers her voice: "It's interesting that the baby's coming around the time of the full moons. The thought just came to me. I wonder if it's significant."

"Oh  _wonderful_ ," I snarl loudly in  _Latine_ , hoping that only Lydia will understand. "Perhaps she will transform on her way out, as well."

"Nah," she begins, but then stammers: "W-Well I mean, probably not."

"The moons do not seem to affect  _you_  very much."

"I get more energetic. It's harder to sleep. Some people have forced transformations, but I don't. I get the urge to hunt, though… and, uh," she clears her throat, "let's just say you'dve noticed the effects of the moons a whole lot more if you weren't with child."

"You have a fascinating sense of timing, Lydia. You tell me such things, now, at the very moment when sex is probably the furthest thing from my mind." I breathe hard when the pain returns just a little sooner than expected.

"Sorry, I'm just nervous. You know I tend to ramble when I'm nervous. I feel like I should be doing something, but I don't know what—"

"Just," I put two fingers over her lips, "sit here, be quiet, and hold my hand."

The task of waiting is, I think, the most difficult part of all this. I do not know what to feel, if indeed I  _should_  be feeling anything at all. I am nervous, of course, but that is to be expected. Should I feel excitement? Joy? Should I do my best to relish this moment, all its pain and struggle, for the mere reason that I might die soon thereafter?

I have tried so hard not to dwell on the thought. I could go and die and leave behind a child who bears my name yet has never known me.  _Are you content?_  I silently ask all the gods,  _Has your puppet performed to your satisfaction?_

But the pain of this moment is good, too, in its own way. No delusion can simulate mortal agony quite like this. It cannot be possible. No, to be in pain is to be alive and present, and right now, above all things, I feel very much  _alive_. My skin is hot and will very soon begin to sweat. My breath is hard and my throat feels dry. All my senses are alive with the incredible white-hot pain that burns only hotter as the slow minutes and hours drip by.

It is a wonderful, horrible, torturous tether to the world. No mind, not even one which is broken, could delude its physical vessel into tearing itself asunder like this. I want to weep and pray and convince myself that this suffering proves my lucidity above all else, proves that I am  _awake_.

All my spirit marvels at my body's suffering, revels in it, clings to every miserable passing hour. I would give anything for it to stop. I have known pain before: magical burns, battle wounds, the pains of the heart… But this is more than simple pain. This is my own mortality screaming in both my ears, forcing me to live every second of my body's agony without reprieve, without mercy.

To be alive is to feel pain. All mortals enter the world in a flow of pain. The dead are wished a peaceful sleep because, in sleep, there can be no pain. I bless my agony. I beg it to stop.

They are holding me by my elbows. Someone has shoved a leather bit in my mouth and someone else is assisting my body as it simultaneously constricts and forces itself wide open.

In this way, I watch myself give life. Once the Listener, once a taker of life, now I have watched myself create it. Is it my penance, then, to return some of what I have taken? Was it intended that I tear myself in half, only then to look on in awe as a new life takes in its first breath? Was I meant to weep and crumble and surrender myself, finally, fully, to protect all life for its own sake?

Tiny, so small and so fragile is the life I have created. The women tend to us both, but my attention stays with her. I watch as my blood is wiped from her skin, as she is goaded into squalling, as she is clothed, swaddled, and finally laid in my arms. I have never held a baby before this, never in all my days. She is whole, despite all that we have endured together. She is perfect.

Flooded though I am with exhaustion, I dare not look away. Gingerly, timidly, I brush one of her cheeks with a finger. Her skin seems so… bright. " _Salve_ ," I whisper, though my voice is hoarse and choked with emotion.

Lydia is at my shoulder, close, a hand held out and afraid to touch her. "She's…"

"I know." My voice is so quiet, reverent. I lightly brush the wisps of fiery hair that adorn her head.

"Amara," a soft voice intervenes. It is Danica, who sits now at my feet. "I must tend to you somewhat more. Will you allow Lydia to hold the baby?"

Delicate and mutually nervous, and with some reluctance on my part, I lay our daughter in Lydia's arms. She looks so afraid, not daring to move, haunted still by her past crimes. I comfort her with a hand on her knee.

"Amara," Danica calls again. "I want you to know what it is that I will do."

I tear my attention away from Lydia and our daughter. "Repair the damage?"

"No, more than just that," she says with a small shake of her head. "I am going to restore you fully. Normally I would never do this, as it is always better for the body to heal itself, but you… do not have the time."

I look down. My belly is still swollen, of course, and all the rest of me is exhausted and still throbbing with pain. "My body will be as it was?"

"Yes. I do not wish to do this, but you will need all your strength and mobility. Do you not agree?" Her whole manner is grave, unwilling to remind me of my looming task.

I brush a hand over the empty swell. "I… do, yes."

"Then please be still," Danica says softly, rubbing white magic between her palms.

I watch, jarred, as her magic reduces in two minutes what took months for my body to build. Vitality floods my muscles and bones, the pain ebbs and disappears, and my abdomen flattens completely. It looks as if nothing had ever occupied it.

Danica stops, beads of sweat tumbling down her face, and looks me over. "Such sudden change is not good for the spirit… please forgive me." She breathes as if she has just been running.

Indeed it is… very strange. I sit up with no effort at all, a little disoriented by the unfamiliar lightness of my frame and its easy, flexible strength. Then I stand, dizzy but perfectly mobile, and am almost shocked by the sight of my own feet. I feel compact, yet empty.

"I can see why," I say absentmindedly, my attention returning to my daughter, as someone hands me a clean robe. Astonishment strikes again when I have no trouble tying its strings about my waist.

I sink back down to the floor, wanting only to be close to them, and rest my head against Lydia's shoulder. "Are you okay?" She asks as she kisses the crown of my head.

"Yes… I think so. I will need some time to reflect." I brush my fingers over the baby's hair again.

Leon bursts suddenly into the room and hurries over to us, crouching down to see the little bundle in Lydia's arms. "I heard the squalling and  _still_  they kept me away." But then he grins wide, quickly enamored, and laughs softly. "Oh  _Mara mea_ , I have not the words."

"Would you like to hold her?" I return his smile.

"May I?" Eager but gentle, he coos to the baby as Lydia carefully passes her to him. "Oh  _ocelle_ , you steal my heart. And now perhaps my dear sister will stop being so secretive and tell me what your name is." He looks up at me with a raised brow as he finishes speaking.

I lay my hand in Lydia's. "Corinna Leone Aestus."

His expression grows tight, and he looks down again, closing his eyes. "Corinna," he repeats, his thumb lightly stroking her face. "Somewhere in Aetherius, she is smiling. I know it to be so." He steadies himself with a breath. "So she will carry our name?"

"If you are not opposed," I reply.

"No, it gladdens me. It is a new beginning, on all accounts. It would be foolish to deny something so significant for the sake of some archaic law. This, and…" he breaks into another grin, "ah, look at her! Even those few wisps of hair are unmistakable."

"But do you feel her magic? Does it feel… curious to you?" I say this because I need him to affirm something that begins to baffle me as I watch her. Her skin has an unusual brightness to it, and yet, the brightness is not physical. She looks bright, and yet produces no actual light. Nothing out of the ordinary.

"Hmm." He studies her. "It is potent, but yes, I can feel a difference. But what exactly, I cannot say." He scrutinizes her further. "It is… odd… I feel as if I can  _see_  her magic, and yet my eyes deny it. Am I mistaken?"

"You see it too, then." It is more of a statement than a question. "Like an aura visible from only the corner of the eye."

"Much like this, yes. I sense nothing harmful, however. Do you?"

"No. It is so faint that I still wonder if I have simply imagined it." I hold out my arms and take her back from him, almost…  _relieved_  to feel her weight against my breast. "It must have something to do with her, ah, unique origins."

"There's nothing wrong with her, though, is there?" Lydia asks from over my shoulder.

"Not that I can see." I brush my lips against Corinna's brow. "Magic is a strange and diverse force, especially in our House. Given the extraordinary circumstances of her conception, it seems only logical that her magic will have been affected."

"Alright." She kisses my ear. "She looks like you."

I smile. "She looks like my  _House_ , though her nose reminds me of yours."

"I'm not sure we're looking at the same nose." She pauses for a moment. "We're parents now."

"We are." I rock Corinna as she begins to fuss.

"Do we… know how to be parents? Dangerous ruins and life-or-death battles with dragons don't exactly leave people much time to prepare for this kind of thing."

"I… have no idea how to be a mother," I admit. "But I will learn."

"We both will," she says gently, her lips to my cheek.

 

* * *

 

_5 Sun's Dusk, 4E202_

 

My body still feels strange, but I admit, I like that I can wear my own clothes once more. In a way, I feel like myself again. I feel agile and strong.

Though of course, I am not  _entirely_  like my old self, not with the added weight of my baby slung securely against my bosom. I know nothing of being a mother, true, but I am determined to do the best that I can. I have spent the past two days in the throes of loving fascination, studying every movement, every sound. I am learning how best to keep her warm, well-fed, clean and content.

Two days. Two days to give her all that I can give. Two days that only I will remember. Two days before I must return to Balgruuf's court and face my fate.

So I keep her pressed close against my body, even here, even now. Let him think me rude or uncouth and watch me bitterly. "I have come to a decision."

"And it is?"

"I will allow you to use my palace. If the Greybeards called you, then they must believe you to have some higher purpose. Mind you, I don't like any of this. I don't want to put Whiterun in your hands. But if you're right, if Alduin has returned, then Whiterun will perish alongside the whole world." He stands. "The trap is built into the Great Porch. I have already had the chains oiled."

I put my arms around Corinna.  _Of course it would be on the Great Porch_. I have not set foot there since the botched assassination. "Very well, then."

Except for the massive wood-and-metal trap hanging from the ceiling, it looks much the same as I remember. I look to Lydia, but her expression is blank. I wonder if she is trying not to remember what happened here, or rather, is trying to be at peace with it.

Balgruuf points to the far end of the Porch: "When the dragon lands, you have to lure it a bit inward before it can be trapped. And… how do you plan on getting a dragon to come here?"

"I was given the name of one of Alduin's high-ranking servants. If I call it, he will see it as a challenge, and will be unable to resist." Turning to Lydia, I bid her to untie Corinna's sling from my shoulders. "You must take her inside and protect her. She cannot be here when the dragon comes."

"I won't leave you," she insists while I press my lips to my daughter's brow.

"She cannot be here," I repeat.

"Shall I take her?" Leon intervenes. "I do not wish to leave either but, yes, one of us must."

I share a long look with him, then gently lay Corinna in his arms. "Thank you."

"She will be safe,  _Mara mea_. You will find I am a very attentive uncle." He dips his head a little. "Please be careful."

I kiss his cheek. "I will."

He waits for Lydia to say her own farewell to Corinna, and then leaves us. As the doors close behind him, I force myself not to wonder if this farewell was my last.

"Tell your men to stand at the ready," I say to Balgruuf as I brush past him, moving toward the end of the Porch, Lydia behind me.

The day is cold, but the sky is clear. I waste no time, I Shout: " _OD AH VIING!_ "  _Hear my challenge and come to me, if you dare_.

A full minute passes in silence before a roar booms and cracks over the distant mountains.  _Hear my call, you beast. You cannot resist_. Then I see him, off in the distance, flying toward me at incredible speed. " _Dovahkiin!_ "

" _Hi kos dii, Odahviing!_ " I Shout back at him, daring him onward. " _My Thu'um will crush you!_ " The great red dragon roars again, infuriated by my taunting, just as I want him to be. He swoops down, breathing fire, but I use magic to neutralize it. " _Come! Face me!_ "

He turns in the air and speeds back toward me, taking in a breath for another fiery blast, but I do not give him the opportunity.

" _JOOR ZAH FRUL!_ "

He screams in the way that Alduin did, overwhelmed by the anger and grief and powerlessness of my Words. I leap backward as the overwhelming force of them renders his wings useless, and pulls him from the sky.

He crashes on the stone floor of the Great Porch, screaming. "What have you done? What is this perversion of the Thu'um?"

"It is how I make you taste defeat, dragon," I growl as I continue stepping backward. "Can you still be so mighty if bound to the earth?"

"Mighty enough to snap you between my jaws, mortal." He follows me, baited.

" _Now!_ " Balgruuf's voice resounds through the whole space.

The trap springs and the wood-and-metal collar falls from the ceiling, trapping the dragon by the neck. I admit, I am a little surprised that it actually… worked.

He struggles furiously, but his prison is secure. " _Nid!_ "

I approach him, wary but prepared. "I will assume that I have your attention."

He growls. " _Zu'u bonaar_. You went to a great deal of trouble to put me in this… humiliating position.  _Hind siiv Alduin, hmm?_  No doubt you want to know where to find Alduin?"

"I know where he is. Sovngarde. No, you will tell me by what means he goes there, and then you will help me follow him."

" _Rinik vazah_. An apt phrase.  _Alduin bovul_. One reason I came to your call was to test your Thu'um for myself. Many of us have begun to question Alduin's lordship, whether his Thu'um was truly the strongest. Among ourselves, of course.  _Mu ni meyye_. None were yet ready to openly defy him."

"That is not an answer to my question. Mind you, I am not obligated to ask nicely."

" _Unslaad krosis_. I digress. His door to Sovngarde is at Skuldafn, one of his ancient fanes high in the eastern mountains.  _Mindoraan, pah ok middovahhe lahvraan til_. I surely do not need to warn you that all his remaining strength is marshalled there.  _Zu'u lost ofan hin laan_ … now that I have answered your question, you will allow me to go free?"

I cross my arms. "I never said I would release you."

"Ah. Well. Hmm…  _krosis_. There is one… detail about Skuldafn I neglected to mention."

"Omission is a risky strategy."

"And yet, you wait to hear it: You have the Thu'um of a dovah, but without the wings of one, you will never set foot in Skuldafn. Of course… I could fly you there, but not while imprisoned like this."

"It would seem, then, that we are at an impasse. I have no reason to trust you."

One of his massive eyes trains on me. "And you have no reason not to."

"You can't really be considering it," Balgruuf says and he makes his cautious approach. "After all it took to catch him, we can't just… let him go!"

"Skuldafn…" I muse aloud, ignoring him. The name is unfamiliar to me. I do not recall ever seeing it on a map.

"You will not reach it,  _Dovahkiin_ , not without my wings."

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and look up to see Lydia gazing at me with such… intensity. Her expression—indeed, the language of her whole body—bursts with some sort of silent, unspeakable plea. Even if she does not know for what she asks… I believe I do: "I give you one night," I say to Odahviing from over my shoulder. "One night to consider how you have answered me. Do remember, dragon, that I do not need this trap in order to kill you."

The dragon says nothing in return, but Balgruuf continues his noisome protest as I make toward the doors of Dragonsreach. "Why don't you just kill him and find another way? It's too risky to release him—"

"I said:  _one night_ ," I speak over him, my hand securely on the small of Lydia's back. "He is defeated and will make no trouble. Let him mourn the sky and decide where his allegiances ought to lie. If in the morning I sense trickery, then he will die."

I do not wait for him to answer.

 

* * *

 

I watch over her and try to memorize her sleeping face. The sun had long dipped below the horizon before I could finally force myself to lay her down and watch her instead. Someone in the city was kind enough to lend us a small bed for her.

I feel a tugging at my sleeve. "Will you tell her of me?" I ask without looking.

"Amara…"

"Will you?"

Those same fingers now move to brush the skin of my wrist. "Of course I will."

"Tell her that I… am sorry."

Rough hands take hold of my upper arms, spinning me about, pulling me against Lydia's body. Loving arms hold me tight, so tight, finally able to do this for the first time in months. "I won't need to. I won't."

This is the first that I can press my breasts against hers and caress her back, press my mouth to her throat, slip a thigh between her own, entice her. This is the first, and the last, that I might give her myself. "And you… you must know." I undo the strings of her trousers and slip a hand inside. Her knees buckle. "With you, I am whole. Now… please try to be quiet."

"B- _Bed_ ," she gasps, her lips on my ear.

I push her backward, never pulling my hand away, until the bed touches the backs of her knees and she lets herself fall. I move one finger in a slow circle and love how she lets me reduce her to such feminine sighs, her fingers in her own hair. I can be on top of her now. I can hover low and kiss her neck and pleasure her. "You will remember this night," I whisper against her skin.

"I've wanted you— _mm_ —so bad. Wanted you… like…" And then she is pressing me,  _hard_ , against her thigh. I rock against her, wanton, happy to show her all that she wants to see. Her hands reach for the ties of my robe, but I push them away with a smirk. She protests when I remove my hand from her trousers, but stops and very quickly grows transfixed as I untie my clothes for her, slowly, artfully, and let the fabric slide down my shoulders and arms.

I grab her by the shirt and pull, making her sit up. "Kiss me."

We crash together, a tangle of arms and legs and too many things to say and not enough time. I will my body to tell her. I pull her shirt open and cup her breasts and love the way she moans against my mouth, her fingers caressing my backside and thighs.

I want her to touch, taste. I want her to see. I thread my fingers into her hair when her lips move downward and sigh with pleasure as she trails kisses down my neck. I writhe against her, unable to stop myself, my building desire spurred onward by her teasing touch on my inner thighs. But she likes this. She likes to watch as I come undone.

It is as if I cannot draw close enough, cannot press hard enough. Her skin is hot and her mouth is hotter, moving back upward to nip at my ear while her hand finally moves to cup my sex. I gasp as quietly as I am able and roll into her, clenching and aching for friction. " _Amara_ …" she breathes my name, unable to resist my body's encouragement.

"Show me what you have wanted," I purr against her ear. I rock against her palm and graze my nails over her upper back. "Show me."

Her breath hitches and she begins to squirm beneath me, her own needs growing all too insistent, but she kisses my neck once more before leaning back to rest on an elbow. One of her legs bends upward to brace the hand she still has pressed between my thighs, and I, on my knees and trembling with anticipation, know all too well what she wants.

I bend to kiss her and she enters me, swift and skilled, and I arch upward with the wonderful shock of pleasure, moaning softly for her. Her green eyes have grown bright, their subtle luminescence burning through me in the best of ways, indicating such a potent combination of adoration and animal lust that I cannot help but to lose myself to her. I grind down on her curling fingers, my hands clutching at her shoulders, and ride her with abandon.

_Watch this_ , is the silent, carnal command of my hips, my sighs, the curve of my back.  _Remember this_.

Her upward thrusts meet my downward rolling in such an exquisite rhythm, and even still I am made to shiver when a low growl rumbles in her chest at the sound of her name on my lips. My head tilts back as the desire—the  _need_ —to move faster, harder, grows irresistible.

In response, she twists her hand so that her thumb presses directly against Dibella's pearl, and I stiffen with pleasure, my breath catching, reveling in the uninhibited and naked desperation with which I move.  _See me_. I would show such vulnerability to no one else. She is the first, the last.

" _You're beautiful_ …" Her voice is low, soft and laden with desire, and she sits up again so that she is pressed flush against me. She kisses my shoulder and never ceases her movements, groaning when I pull her hair. "And  _mine_. Mine to touch. Mine to hold. No matter where you go, what you do." She thrusts harder and my hips buck, my loins clenching, cresting,  _throbbing_  with release. I cry out, delirious with it. "You're mine. The dragons can't have you. Aetherius can't have you. The gods can't have you. You belong to  _me_."

I wilt against her, quivering from aftershocks as well as from her words. I reach down and still her hand, if only so that I can recover and listen to her. "And you," I whisper. "My… my  _amans_. My partner. I want you for myself alone." She lays me on my back, and her lips quickly find mine. "You, too, are beautiful to me. All of you. I want no other, never another."

" _Amara_ …" My hands trail down her body, seeking her pleasure. I smirk when I realize that her trousers, though untied, still adorn her legs. " _Mm_. I wasn't… done yet."

"Nor I," I purr and press my brow to hers. "Roll over."

She obliges, and I unclothe her with deliberate care, my eyes roaming her exposed skin. Then I bend to kiss her stomach and she sighs softly, reaching for my hair, gently pulling me near to her face. "Come here."

I cannot help but to smile, privately, against her shoulder. Except for the incident in Dawnstar, I have only ever touched her in this way: in a warm, face-to-face embrace, my body covering and shielding hers from above. I have tried to initiate other positions, of course, but she always rearranges us back to this in the end, always as if in silent request that I protect  _her_  in her moment of vulnerability. Not even the Beast blood has affected this intimate secret of hers.

This moment is more overwhelming than I could have anticipated. After all that has happened, all my transgressions and lies, all our struggles, all the fear, anger, desperation, and sacrifice, to hold and touch her again,  _like this_ , leaves me near to breathless, my throat tight with all that I still want to say to her.

We do not have the time, not now, not in these precious hours I have perhaps recklessly stolen from the rest of creation. A mere two words are all that can escape me: " _Thank you_." Warm, close, she surrenders beneath my touch, beneath my words. She pulls my brow to rest against her own and my hair falls around us like a fiery curtain, as if to hide her expression from all eyes but mine.

Her head tilts back and she gasps when I push inside, her body accepting me readily, clenching and shaking as I make small movements with my fingers and press my lips to the side of her face, her neck. I watch and listen with intense care, willing myself to memorize every whimper and breath, every eager thrust of her heat against my hand and the way she grinds herself against my palm. I kiss beneath her chin, down her throat and collar, careful to touch our bodies together wherever possible, humming my pleasure against her skin when she presses a thigh between my legs and throws her arms back, her spine arching, having found her stride.

I press our breasts together and move with her, desperate to memorize how this feels, how  _she_  feels, and how her body responds as I bring her close. And then her mouth is against my ear, all part of a struggle to keep quiet, as her legs attempt to close around my hand, her spine stiffens, and she constricts all around my fingers in tight, throbbing release. She whispers her pleasure to me, shuddering.

What words could apply here? Our physical bodies cannot press any closer than this, no matter that I still try.  _Remember me_. Even as we grow quiet and I pull my fingers from her, I dare not move otherwise.

She clutches me with as much strength as she dares, now unable to resist her own rise of emotion, and no longer wishes that I be able to see her face. It hangs in the air, all around us, that heartfelt plea she cannot bring herself to say:

_Come back_.

 

* * *

 

_Author's Note:_

 

_1\. I've had a reason for writing Amara's family curse into this story. It wasn't there for the mere purpose of drama. It was there because I wanted Amara to have a fundamental weakness, something she's paralyzingly afraid of, at the end of this story. Why? Because I wanted Alduin to take advantage of it. It's ridiculous that, upon defeating Alduin, the Dragonborn doesn't absorb his soul. Seriously. Why the hell did we even need a Dragonborn, then? The Tongues would have managed just fine, considering THEY'RE the ones who invented Dragonrend in the first place. So Amara absorbs Alduin in my story, but he's different from other dragons. He can see Amara's fears, and thus tries to use them against her. That's why we've been dealing with Aestus madness all this time._

_2\. If Amara's little speech to Lydia about how "those words belong to [her] now" seems somehow familiar to you, then I have good news: you're just as much a shameless Whovian as I am. I kinda sorta "borrowed" a quote from Clara to Danny, and reworked it a little. I couldn't help myself._

_3\. I killed Ulfric Stormcloak way back in chapters 8/9 because the Season Unending quest didn't fit into the timeline I wanted. That's why, when Amara goes to Balgruuf about the trap, he doesn't mention the civil war._

_4\. I forgot to mention this in my previous Author's Note: The name Corinna didn't just come out of the blue for me. As I've probably made abundantly clear, I am something of an armchair Classicist and enjoy the study of Latin. Corinna is the name of Ovid's girlfriend in the_ Amores _, and is first mentioned in Book 1, Poem 5. Interestingly enough, it was almost what I named my Dragonborn, but I opted for Amara when I realized that Corinna means 'maiden' in its original Greek… quite frankly, it just didn't fit. Oh, and another thing I can_ finally _say is that_ Amores _1.5 is also semi-responsible for their House name: the first word of the poem is_ aestus _._

_5\. Lydia's lycanthropy was part of this story's plan since… ever, basically. The idea to replace Sinding with Lydia in the Ill Met by Moonlight quest came a little later, when I realized she would need to commit her own heinous crime before she and Amara could ever find some way to reconcile. Her actions are supposed to scare and haunt her, and Corinna is part of Lydia's penance, in this way. Corinna's ultimate purpose, in Lydia's case, is to remind her of her humanity, her responsibility and guilt, and to keep her from going feral without Amara to ground her._

_6\. You may be wondering why I took the time to talk about Corinna's magic. Just to be clear: she's an infant, and right now, she's not about to do something Mary-Sue-like. Nor will she in the future. Or ever. Do I have a reason for mentioning it? Yes. I won't say too much now, but in short, let's just say that her magic isn't important in THIS particular story…_


	22. Sovngarde

**Chapter 22: Sovngarde**

 

_6 Sun's Dusk, 4E202_

 

Leon's head bows, his pensive gaze trained on the low-burning candle between us. "So strange is the mortal mind. We knew this day would come, and yet, it always seemed far away, somehow. I should have much to say, but…" a small smile, "I find that I wish merely to reflect on the willful little girl I so fondly remember. You and I used to duel over childish trivialities, wishing each other horribly maimed. I confess: I once begged mother to sell you to a traveling band of players, and was very disappointed when she refused."

None of us could sleep for more than a few scant hours, not even Corinna, who I hold once again to my breast. It was her keening that bade me rise just as the sun began to peek over the horizon, Lydia stirring behind me, and Leon appearing in our room soon thereafter. It is just as well: each low-lit, reflective, ominous minute is a gift. My daughter's warm weight in my arms is a priceless boon I never knew I wanted, and my brother's musings seem strangely appropriate for this moment, this all too brief instant of time.

When I picked her up this morning to feed and calm her, my Corinna's eyes opened for the first time, and she looked up at me quite directly, me and my startled expression that melted so very quickly into one of some nameless, heavy-hearted rapture. She will not remember my face, but now I know that I will ever be the first thing in the world to have met her gaze.

I kiss her brow once again, and thank her, silently, for giving me the honor. "I once begged her to toss you into the Arena," I tell Leon with a small smile of my own. "It was the day you set my bed on fire. She was so livid, I was almost certain that she would agree. Imagine my disappointment when she merely thought it fit that you duel  _her_."

"I will never forget it. What she conjured was nothing short of a hurricane. It was, ah… terrifying." He reaches across our little table to touch one of Corinna's hands, and smiles indulgently when she grasps one of his fingers in her tiny fist. "I wonder what sort of trouble you will find for yourself,  _ocelle_ ," he says to her.

"No doubt the sort brought about by my doting eccentric of a brother," is my quick, teasing reply. But then I am given pause, once again, by the heavy subject that lingers around and between us. I take a bare second to glance behind me, to Lydia, who stands at the window and watches the sunrise. "I would ask that you… ah…" I fumble for an appropriate means to articulate what I feel just now, but the words do not come.

But my brother is an intelligent man, as insightful as he is warm. Of the two of us, it was he who was always the more personable. "On the matter of her custody, I… know what is demanded by law. She must be given to her next of kin, and… as you are not married, I know it will fall to me."

Lydia, although she does not turn away from the window, finally speaks: "Are we really talking as if Amara's not going to survive?"

"We… must," I say after a pause.

Her arms are crossed tight over her chest, and her head is bowed. "She's going to need you, Leon. I don't know anything about magic or parenthood and I barely have a Septim to my name. Just… Just promise you won't try to separate me from her." She cannot hide the strain in her voice.

Leon shakes his head, his expression solemn. "I would never dare commit such an injustice. Part of her has come from you, and I would be a wicked fool to deny either of you your rightful bond, or to deny Amara's wishes moreover. No, you will never be forced to leave her. I only ask that we cooperate."

When Lydia does not respond, I rise and approach her, and make her turn to face me with a light touch on her arm. Her eyes are glossy with the tears she refuses to shed, but she does not look away. "She will need you, too," I say with a peculiar serenity. I wonder if this is the same sort of resigned peace characteristic of the terminally ill. "You will teach her courage and fortitude, and how to be assertive, honest, and self-reliant. And she will know that, thanks to you, she need never feel unsafe or afraid."

One of Lydia's shaking hands comes up to brush lightly over our baby's head. Her voice is barely a whisper: "But  _I_  need  _you_."

She and I cannot simply marry, not now, and perhaps not ever. I will do all that I can to stay with her, to be hers and she mine, but I think neither of us feels it would be appropriate to stand before the gods and make vows as if we were innocent. Especially I, responsible as I am for the murder of a bride at her own wedding, cannot demand that same privilege in good conscience.

The sun is risen, and early gray daylight has spilt all through our quiet little room. I cannot steal another day from Tamriel. We both know this.

It is time for me to go.

We embrace, Corinna pressed lightly between us, and try to steal just one more second nonetheless.

 

* * *

 

Even Balgruuf is reduced to silence when I climb atop the compliant Odahviing. The moment he offered me his wings, I knew that I would have no option but to free him: indeed, no dragon would make such an offer were they not certain of their defeat.

The night I spent with Lydia was selfish, I know, but it also seems to have left this dragon all the more eager to do my bidding. He is crouched low for my convenience, his head bowed, and does not dare make any indication of rebellion. It is the nearest that a dragon can come to an oath of fealty, and this satisfies me. I would not venture to say that I trust him, but I can say with confidence that I shall make use of him.

I am oddly content: sad, yes, tense and nervous, yes, but also resolved. Maybe I am a delusional madwoman. Maybe I am the doom-driven heroine granted to the world by the gods. Lydia and our baby look beautiful all the same, close and warm together under the eaves of the Great Porch, embodying all my strength and determination and every deed and sacrifice that brought us here.

What a wildly different picture from the horrid scene of a year ago, when the Captain and the Listener found themselves locked in a battle to the death. Now my hard-earned lover stands and watches me, our child in her arms, and between us there lies a bond forged in fire and blood, guilt and deceit, anger and uncertainty, concession and sacrifice; in selfishness, cooperation, revelation, hardship, acceptance, patience, and the most insistent and naked form of love I have ever known. It is a bond more basic, precious, and sacred to me than anything else is in this world.

Leon stands just beside them, close and protective, though his eyes are on me. I wonder if he sees all these events with the same sort of dark humor that I do: the ever-tragic House Aestus, her scions born only to burn in some divine fire or other. We understand one another in a way that no outsider ever could, and I take comfort in the knowledge that he will be there to guide Corinna, who might otherwise never know the true weight of her name. It is a heavy burden to bear, true, but it is  _ours_ , and I want her to know.

I burn their image into the eye of my mind. I hope that Lydia will be able to trust Leon—or will learn to trust him, at least—and, if I am unable to come back to them, that they find some measure of peace. Whether or not they will have the opportunity is no concern of mine: no matter my fate, they will live. It is not a mere hope or a possibility. It is not clouded by doubt or insecurity. If I die, I will take Alduin with me. If I survive, then it will be with Alduin dead at my feet.

And if instead I am simply mad and dreaming, then may I never wake.

There are few words to exchange, now. They will learn to be a family with or without me. I will ensure it. I tear my gaze away from them to face the wide blue heavens, that great realm from which I have been exiled, and order Odahviing to fly.

 

* * *

 

Perhaps Ungolim would have joked that this will be my final assassination.

I draw the parallels with a sort of private amusement. How queer that the same two hands responsible for the murder of an emperor of men are fated, also, to end the life of an emperor among gods.

It is not all the same, of course. I am not cold. I am not empty. I am not even completely sure if I feel angry. I am simply lucid and driven toward a certain goal, and the feeling does not weaken or alter even as Skuldafn comes into view ahead of us, looming ahead like a mirage made out of mist.

Even so, I am much reminded of my rampage on the  _Katariah_ , and how even the full force of the Emperor's  _Penitus Oculatus_  could not withstand the heat of my fury. Then, as now, I had something I wanted to protect: a family; something small and new that I had created which was precious to me. Only by cutting the head off my enemy will my family ever have a hope of survival.

I remember how the Emperor's flesh ruptured and burned as he died. Every dragon I kill seems to burn up in a similar way, including Alduin.

His forces swarm here in formidable numbers, a small army in their own right. It would have been an overwhelming challenge to the mage I had been but a year ago. But the mage of a year ago did not have the Thu'um. She did not have Lydia and Corinna and Leon, nor had she found a lasting friend in Ungolim, nor had she felt the incredible guilt brought on by his death. She had no reason to curb her tendency toward violence: she was deteriorating from within, and the world around her seemed more like a cruel game.

She also did not have a massive red dragon to do her bidding.

"Convince your brethren to join my cause," I order as I drop to the old stone floor of Skuldafn's exterior courtyard. Three dragons are circling in the distance, already wary of me, but roaring with challenge. "Tell them the  _Dovahkiin_  has defeated Alduin once already, and intends to finish him once and for all. My standing order is that no dragon shall attack human settlements  _ever again_. All who refuse me will die."

Odahviing grumbles. "Already they hesitate.  _Midrotu los liivrah_. Their loyalty is wavering. I will do as you ask."

"Good choice." I cast myself in magical armor. "Be sure to incinerate some of those draugr on the way." I gesture to the creatures shuffling along the eaves too high for me to reach properly, where they could very easily pelt me with arrows.

Odahviing flies off while I make one final survey of my surroundings. As I am alone, I cannot expect to make my way through this place by killing every draugr in sight. There are too many, and even with my magic and Thu'um, I will not prevail if they attack all at once. It is almost humorous to think that all my blundering about with Lydia may have left my aptitude for stealth somewhat worse for wear.

This does not mean, however, that I learned nothing useful from her. I pick my silent way to a darkened alcove in the wall near the main courtyard and summon a flame atronach with a wave of my hand. It materializes out toward the center just as Odahviing sweeps flames from above, driving most of the nearby draugr into a very useful swarming frenzy.

The ones left relatively undamaged from Odahviing's assault are still brainless enough to leap from their perches in pursuit of my atronach, unable to comprehend that they cannot survive such a fall. I watch as several of them spatter accordingly, bursting and scattering like overripe fruit.

The rest attack my atronach in a rather falmer-esque swarm, their ancient weapons making a furious effort to wound it even as their rotting hands burn from the proximity. I feed it a small trickle of magic to keep it at adequate strength while, silently, I creep from alcove to alcove and up a flight of stairs.

Once out of sight, I rally my energies and summon a Dremora Lord. These are powerful creatures, but the spell is somewhat difficult for me to maintain, meaning that it will only stem the tide of draugr behind me for a brief while. "Finish them off," I whisper to it. "Leave none to follow me."

Another frenzied battle erupts behind me as I make my way onward. I try not to let the noise remind me of Lydia, as any subsequent ruminations could lead my feet into some careless disaster. I am sure that, right now, she must be very far from calm.

I shake my head. I cannot be distracted, not now.

The temple doors loom ahead, up at the top of a long flight of forbidding, ancient granite stairs. Three draugr patrol the area, all of them carrying ebony weapons. They must be some sort of elite type, likely able to Shout.

I dispatch the first of them with a carefully-aimed ice spike between the eyes, glad to see that even the strongest of the Nordic draugr have weaknesses similar to even the most rotten Cyrodilic zombie. This alerts the other two, of course, and I back against a shadowed wall when one of them readies its bow and trains an arrow in my general direction.

The other makes its shuffling, grunting approach toward my hiding place, but it is the bowman who worries me much more. I lick my dry lips, crouch to sprint, and say a brief prayer.

" _WULD NAH KEST!_ " My Thu'um propels me up the stairs in a blur, past the bowman and before the temple doors. It turns just as I cast my ice spike, which shatters its skull. I release a heavy breath.

The third draugr roars and charges toward me, and I must wonder, as my magic hits it squarely between the eyes, if the first necromancer responsible for these foul things assumed his creations would only ever do battle with heavy-footed, heavy-armored Nord brutes. So long as they are in smaller numbers, they are ill-equipped to fight against a mage-assassin. They charge in, sword swinging, with the assumption that their opponent will always do the same.

I begin pulling on one of the heavy doors just as I hear the battle in the courtyard begin to wind down. I have no way of knowing how many draugr survived, and really, I have no desire to dally long enough to find out. With some effort, I manage to pull the door just wide enough to slip inside, and then pull it shut just as I begin to hear the scattered groaning and shuffling of whatever draugr are still able to ascend the stairs.

Hopefully they will not be smart enough to think to pursue me further.

I find myself in a great hall of sorts, and am gratified to see how much of it is bathed in shadow. I cannot see any draugr, but I can hear them, and I must assume that they are gathered just beyond the far wall. The whole of this place is permeated with strange magic, and I am reminded, somewhat, of the Eye of Magnus in Winterhold.

It is curious to fight alone again, restricted as I am to the shadows. It is curious, also, to move with the full strength and mobility of my own body after so many months of heaviness.

Here again, as before, I deem it best to move about in stealthy silence and to avoid whatever battles I can. Now is not the time to take unnecessary risks. I have far too much to lose and must take care to conserve my strength for my ultimate goal. Moreover, I have no way of knowing if the path to Sovngarde will have some adverse effect on my health, so it is in my best interest to cross it with as much of my vitality as can be preserved.

Try though I might, however, the narrow and enclosed layout of this place makes it impossible to avoid every obstacle. I pass through a close-quartered hall and come upon another large room, though not before quietly dispatching the two draugr standing guard at the threshold. I then take quickly to the shadows, and wait for any signs of alarm.

The room sprawled out before me is blocked off by a flight of stairs and a gate at the far end, which I assume I will have to open, and is too well-lit for comfort. Coffins line the walls, most of them sealed. Two draugr are seated at the table in the center of the room, their postures as still as the grave.

They will likely rise if they detect my presence. I would not be surprised, moreover, if a few more were to burst from their coffins for the same reason. I study the gate: it is made of iron and sealed with a rather prominent lock, and will make a great deal of noise no matter what means is employed to open it. I move with complete silence, quick and inconspicuous as a ghost, a lockpick already in hand.  _Fortuna make this lock a simple one_.

But then I notice the keys hooked to the belt of one of the draugr at the table. I pause.  _Dare I?_  Assuming those to be the  _only_  set of keys for this room, I could lock the gate behind me and make it impossible for these creatures to follow…

My fingers twitch. It is rather tempting.

I creep closer to the thing. Though the arts of stealth and lockpicking are numbered among my better skills, I cannot claim to be much of a pickpocket. It is a skill that I, a woman of means, have never needed to train very seriously. The Dark Brotherhood gave me _some_  small amount of practice, of course, but I may indeed have grown clumsy since…

I reach out, my breath held so as to avoid making any sound—and to avoid the rancid stink of its rotting flesh—and lightly lift them from their fastening. All is yet still, though my heart beats wildly, thrilled with the knowledge of what I have just managed to do, and I take a step backward… right into an earthenware jar. It clatters noisily to its side.

They waken, rise, all of them growling at me. Three graves burst open.

" _Merda!_ " I curse as I scramble up the stairs and toward the gate and shove the key into the lock. For a short, blood-freezing half-second, the stupid rusty thing refuses to turn, but then obliges me and allows the gate to screech open. I slip past it and slam it back shut. I shove the key into the hole on my side, turn it, and then jump back just as their rotting hands begin to reach for me through the bars. I jump from foot to foot, willing the nervous energy away as I watch them snarl at me, powerless to do anything else.

I back away, slowly, constantly looking over my shoulder. By the gods, that was lucky. A second more and they could very well have grabbed me. And to my relief, none of them seem to possess another set of keys, or if they do, then their brains seem to be too rotted to know how to use them. All the better.

Ever the more cautious and quiet, I slip into the shadows of the long hall beyond the blessedly-sturdy gate. It ends in a sizeable crypt of sorts, which is guarded, so far as I can see, by a single draugr elite. Several more are probably lying in wait, but I have no way of guessing how many.

In any case, the one visible draugr is active and pacing about, making it impossible for me to sneak around it to reach the iron doors over which it seems to be keeping watch. I suck in a quiet breath and aim an ice spike at its head, hoping its fall will not be loud enough to stir its fellows.

But  _Fortuna_  is fickle. Its weapon crashes to the stone floor and the noise reverberates throughout the room, alerting three draugr, two of which burst from nearby coffins, the third rushing into the room from the same iron doors through which I must pass. I press harder against the wall and summon a flame atronach to divert their attention, and with the assistance of this second front, I am able to take each of them down with a few carefully-aimed shots. I then take a moment to re-cast my magical armor.

The maze of ruins beyond the iron doors are nearly overrun with frostbite spiders, much to my chagrin. Their webbing and various forms of decayed refuse litter nearly every available surface, and I pick my way around it with no small amount of disgust. I loathe these creatures utterly, no matter that their venom, when concentrated, is quite useful.

Good that they are weak against fire.

I send my flame atronach ahead of me and allow it to eliminate the majority of the pests for me. I do my best to conserve my energy, but this sort of fighting necessitates different tactics. Their bite is potentially fatal, and in this case, it is almost always the better idea to defend myself rather than attempt an escape. My flame cloak spell works well to this effect: any who come too close burn up almost immediately.

I press on in this way, a trail of crisp spider carcasses in my wake, until I reach a pair of heavy wood-and-metal doors. I pull one open, and of course it is painfully noisy and alerts all the draugr who haunt the room beyond.

I take several steps back and try to make a quick survey of my options. This hall is straight and quite narrow, which will almost certainly force the draugr to come at me in a line, or in pairs at most. I move as far back as I can, until I feel the press of cold, dirty stone behind me, and lie in wait. To my atronach, I whisper: "Aim for their  _heads_."

As could have been predicted, they come searching after a few seconds, all of them funneling mindlessly into the hall. I force myself to maintain steady breath and steady hands, refusing to allow any measure of excitement to affect my accuracy negatively. They will not reach me so long as I fire with precision and patience, no matter that the near-careless efforts of my atronach seem more of a distraction than a help.

Their numbers thin and finally reduce to silent nothingness, and I sink to the floor. So much for stealthy avoidance. I am not exhausted, of course, but I still want to air on the side of caution, so I take a few minutes to breathe. My atronach returns to Oblivion just as I once again rise to my feet.

I step over the pile of bodies and enter the next chamber, which I am glad to see is empty of any more draugr. I ascend a flight of crumbling stairs and find myself faced with an open gap, beyond which is the only other set of doors in the room. The bridge is raised, held vertical by a few bits of brittle, fraying rope. Strange animal-like symbols adorn a pair of granite pillars to my left and to my right, and I assume they make up some sort of puzzle or password to lower the bridge.

I shake my head and aim a few small blasts of fire at the ropes instead. The ancient Nords will need to be a little cleverer than that to keep  _me_ out.

I slip through the doors. This is such a strange temple, if indeed that is what it is. I have not the faintest clue what it could be otherwise, what with all the altars and human sacrifices littering the whole interior. The Nords of today are a strange culture already, but I daresay their ancient societies were significantly stranger. Their modern aversion to magic is the absolute antithesis of their ancestors' attitudes.

I swear I could choke on the magic that permeates these halls. It is a trait peculiar to the truly ancient Nordic ruins, although modern scholarship, as with most things, cannot reach a consensus as to why. It is my opinion—though of course I claim no real authority on this particular culture—that the phenomenon has to do with their long-since-forgotten magical practices, which must have differed significantly from those of today.

I crouch before the next chamber and chide myself, silently, for falling once again into reverie. Now is  _not_  the time.

The room is relatively open and holds no coffins. Three pacing draugr are between me and the next hall, but I am able to dispatch all of them quickly. The magic grows significantly more cloying with each new chamber, leaving little doubt in my mind as to whether or not I am on the right path. I spare a glance to an ancient, crumbling mummy laid out on the altar in the middle of the room: a failed draugr, most likely. What profane magics guide these creatures, I do wonder.

I reach a spiral staircase and look up to see it extend into near-complete darkness. In times like these, I could kick myself for neglecting the magical school of Illusion. I never did learn the art of invisibility, having always thought myself too adept at stealth to necessitate it. But, especially now, I cannot deny that such an ability would prove overwhelmingly convenient.

At least my shoes are magically silenced. I creep up the stairs, slowly, unsure as to what might lie in wait on the floor above. My position makes me a painfully easy target, though I am grateful to see that the room is quite dark.

I peer over the lip of the stairwell. I can hear them—two, perhaps—and moreover can see a pair of glowing eyes through some barely-discernible aperture in the far wall, though they are not trained on me. I have not yet been detected.

I fight the urge to scowl: what  _is_  their strategic advantage here? The scarce lighting is provided by  _candles_ , of all things, which a mage like myself can snuff with nary a twitch of my finger. The oblivious, mindless gate guard is, moreover, an easy target to even the most clumsy of ranged assailants. I take it down without much effort, and then eliminate its fellow when it makes an artless charge into the main room.

Perhaps this is why the gods chose me, a mage-assassin, to be their champion. All potential lofty ideals and profound life lessons aside, their reasoning could very well lie in simple practicality. Alduin's moldering worldly army is unsuited to a killer of my style, who is much more content to sneak about and strike with systematic patience rather than bang about and tempt  _Fortuna_  against my favor.

I stop my ruminations short and step over the fallen draugr, into the little room it had been guarding, and pull a rusted lever to open the far gate. The only thing that will see me killed now, I swear, is my inability to remain in the present. Every little thing in here seems to drive me to thoughtful distraction, and I am reminded of my old obsession with the lore and legacy of the Dwemer.

True, it is better that I ponder the machinations of the ancient Nords instead of the state of the family I had to leave behind in Whiterun, but the distraction is dangerous nonetheless. I try to avoid missing them, or picturing their faces. There is work to be done and it is _long_  in coming.

Through the gate is a dark and empty hall. It stretches longer than I would have expected and bends only two or three times, but the strange magical sensation grows ever stronger as I creep along. The fact that no draugr are here to guard it is either a very good sign, or a very bad one. There are no crumbling coffins, no stinking, inert bodies on the ancient floor. The whole of my surroundings contain a darkened, chilled silence, and little else.

Turning a final corner, the hall ends in a peculiar arched chamber, poorly lit, and sealed by one of those infamous Nordic puzzle doors. I have read of them, though this is the first that I have ever seen one. Its lone guard is a truly hulking draugr elite, distinguished by a rusted ancient battle crown and a greatsword of ebony.

A sparkling object, in the shape of a dragon claw, hangs from its belt. I assume it to be the key.

The ancient intention of this particular setup—the long lonely hall, the lone powerful adversary, the narrow layout of the chamber—becomes perfectly clear: the Nordic champion, weary from all his previous battles, must fight this one last duel, this final test of his mettle as a warrior. He must fight in an honorable, face-to-face Nordic battle. Nord man against undead-Nord-man. Loud Nord brute against loud Nord brute.

And here I am, the small-framed Imperial female, trumping all that poetic honor with a careful shot from my dark corner. It is simple, really: these Nordic zombies, no matter how formidable their rotting sword arms, cannot survive an ice spike between the eyes. One must only know a little about necromancy to be aware of this structural weakness… but then again, what Nord brute is expected to know aught of necromancy? Certainly not whatever champion the ancient Nords had in mind when planning the security of Skuldafn.

And for my part, I am far from compelled to fight in a manner satisfactory to Nordic ideals. Regardless of what I do or how I kill, the bards will probably claim that I charged in here with a sword, roaring and singing at the top of my lungs. The image is amusing, if nothing else.

I shake my head a little and rise to approach the dead draugr. Even  _I_  will admit to the anticlimax of this kill.

The claw on its belt is heavier than it looks, and closer inspection reveals that the talons are composed of diamond.  _Ecastor_ , this object must be worth a fortune, if indeed it is not priceless. The diamonds alone must have been massive and near impossible to procure. I cannot even say for sure what sort of metal composes the palm: it is like gold, only a sort of silver-white.

I turn it over in my hands. Three inscriptions line its underside: a fox, a moth, and a dragon. I try to recall what I have read of puzzle doors: it is actually overwhelmingly rare that a key is found to match any one specific door. I myself know only of one historical instance, though, again, I claim no scholarly authority. Logic would dictate that the inscriptions on the door must be arranged to match those on the key, in order from top to bottom…  _I hope_ … and then the key must be inserted into the appropriate slot.

I arrange the inscriptions on the door, alterable by means of rotatable concentric stone rings, until they too are ordered  _fox_ ,  _moth_ , and  _dragon_. A little nervous now, as I fear the possibility of some unforeseeable trap, I insert the claw into its slot with distrustful caution.

Nothing happens.

I blink. Should the door not open? I check again: the symbols are all aligned, no traps have been triggered…  _yet_ … and the claw fits without any resistance. I scowl. Very few Nords, ancient or contemporary, are prone to outright trickery. If, however, this is not the right key, then I will be forced to rescind all my smug musings about the ineffectiveness of their security and planning.

I look the whole apparatus over. What must I do now, blast it down? I refuse to go in search of the real key, if indeed there is one to be found. I look back down at the fallen draugr. No,  _no_ , the Nords are too straightforward and predictable a culture to deceive like this. I am missing something obvious and stupid. Something like…

_Oh_. I grasp the protruding handle of the claw, its talons still perfectly fitted to their slots, and try not to slap myself when the whole thing turns easily and the door begins to lower. I remove the claw quickly and put it in my satchel, quite unwilling to part with it.

The large chamber beyond the door is silent and completely empty: no draugr, no guards of any kind. Two ancient skeletons are seated on two prominent thrones just before me, but neither is enchanted to attack. I imagine no intruders were ever expected to come this far.

The whole room is dominated by an ancient Word Wall, which I approach with an eager, though cautious, interest. It is rather beautiful: intricately carved in  _Dovahzul_ , it is a monument to some forgotten Nordic hero, perhaps one of the skeletons in this room. One Word catches my attention more than the others, however: " _Strun_ …" I whisper to myself, brushing light fingers over the carvings.  _Storm_. The beginnings of a Shout opposite to that which Clears the Skies. A pity that I cannot take some time to ponder it further.

I ascend a flight of stairs just behind the Word Wall and come upon another heavy wood-and-metal door. It leads me back outside and into the bright light of day, causing me to squint, but my temporary blindness is a trifling issue in comparison to the overwhelming sensation of magicka in the air. It feels much like falling into a pool of cold water: a near-paralyzing shock, followed by shivering discomfort.

At least I should not fear being attacked: I notice, when my vision finally adjusts to the light, that the draugr here have already been burned and crushed. At least Odahviing has made himself useful, though I wonder if he was successful in recruiting those other three dragons I saw earlier.

I see one or two of them circling to the far east, though I cannot distinguish them very well. The magic here is incredible, even to the point where it makes my heart beat a little faster. Surely any interaction with it will kill me? Is this so-called blessing from the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller really sufficient to keep my mortal flesh from disintegrating under such impossible force?

I see the source of the sensation when I walk to the east-facing side of the temple: from atop a flight of ancient stairs, magic pulses up and into the air from something in the floor—though I cannot yet see it—and with such magnitude that I cannot stop my teeth from chattering.

Everything in me fights against it. No part of me wants to make itself subject to such an impossible perversion of magic. All my knowledge, skill, and practical experience warns against such a thing, and little of it has to do with morality or a sense of right and wrong… no, it is the fact that magic like this can do much more than kill. There are states of being that are much worse than death, or even undeath. It is this sort of magic that makes them possible.

I raise my foot to the first step. And I am to…  _submit_  to this monstrosity, not knowing what my fate might truly be? I am to trust that the gods have granted me safe passage?

Still, I make my quiet, solemn climb. My spirit fights, my body fights, but my resolve is much stronger than both of these. What I protect is much more important than whatever fate awaits my body and spirit, and if I turn away now, if I cower or hesitate, then I will have betrayed them and sentenced them all to death.

Some kind of floating abomination awaits me at the top of the stairs, standing sentinel between myself and the magical anomaly that I seek. I have nowhere to hide, no dark corners to make use of, and no knowledge of the nature of my adversary.

It turns and pulls a staff from the pillar just behind it, causing the magical portal to close. The effect is instantaneous: it is as if the air stills and becomes easier to breathe again.

I cast myself in magical armor, and as one, we circle one another. It senses my magical ability, thus its caution. It is no draugr, no rotting product of simple necromancy. It is intelligent, and regardless of whether or not it was expecting some Nord brute, it is clever enough to adapt to me instead.

"Surrender," I warn it, my voice steady and grave and laced with the Thu'um. I have not participated in a magical duel in some time, but not even this creature has the strength to bring me down. Not now.

Ah, but it would seem that the ancient Nords will have their final test, after all.

It attacks. A wall of fire hurdles at me with near-blinding speed, but I reach out, take control of it, and swing it back at the creature with a pivot of my foot. It follows up with a barrage of fireballs, perhaps expecting me to be distracted, but I dance around them, returning some and dodging the others. I will  _not_  be stopped here, not by this thing, and certainly not by my own element.

This deadly dance is one that I mastered long ago. The opponent is irrelevant. One of my returned shots connects with the thing's chest and explodes, setting the mangled remains of its clothing all ablaze. It makes no noise, not a sound, but is obviously stunned long enough for me to cast my own magic at it. I pour fury into this flame, willing it hot enough to melt flesh and bone alike.

Now it screams: a wailing, piercing sound, and falls to the ancient stone floor in a pile of dust. It had been wearing an odd mask, and I notice, as I make my approach, that my flames had done nothing to mar or damage it. I pick it up: heat seeps through my fingers, though this is not because of my attack, and runes adorn its metal surface. Whatever this artifact is, it is clear that only the most advanced of mages would be able to touch it without harm.

I decide to take it nonetheless. It is a trophy, all things considered, and I am vain enough to want it.

I approach the closed portal. The creature had dropped the staff at the foot of its pillar, and I pick it back up. Here is another ancient, weighty, dangerously magical thing. I fit it back into its slot, and the portal opens once again, much to my admitted displeasure. The stone floor crumbles and the unnatural light bursts up and outward once more, and I stand now at its precipice, and stare into its depths.

Now, finally, I allow myself to recall the image of Lydia, Corinna, and Leon standing close together and watching me. I allow myself to recall a flood of images and thoughts besides, all in the space of a few more stolen seconds, before allowing myself to fall.

 

* * *

 

I cannot say what I had been expecting. Death, perhaps. The shredding of my physical body, perhaps. Mortal flesh has no place with magic of this sort, no matter how skilled the mage. It is thus a relief to see that my flesh is yet whole, even as time and space bend and shatter all around me. What has been done to me, I wonder, that has given me the ability to resist the sundering of reality itself?

I have had dreams like this before, in which I could float and fall at the same time. And fall I would, endlessly, with little hope of ever hitting the ground. Only this time… I do.

I cannot say whether I fell here, or simply took a step forward, but my feet are on the ground. All around me is singing, chanting: the endless music and feasting of Nordic paradise. I cannot say how I know, but still I know that where I stand is where all first stand mere seconds after death. This is the path walked by millions upon millions, unfailingly, ever since the dawn of time.

Sovngarde. What living Imperial can claim to have seen this place? We are intended for the Elysian Fields, or so the augurs say, and I would have little trouble believing that I am the first living Imperial to ever set foot here. As to the Imperial dead, of course, I can say nothing. Interracial relations necessitate open borders between the realms of the dead, or else all Aetherius would surely fly into a lovesick revolt.

I look all around: this place is very beautiful.  _Will Lydia and I…?_  I shake my head. No, I had my time to think of her. My scholarly interest in my surroundings is near impossible to ignore, of course, but I must keep my wits about me otherwise, and thinking of her will not help.

I descend the set of stairs just before me. Statues line the steps, massive and ancient, but somehow still new. It is growing clearer and clearer to me that I must make an effort to ignore all that I would otherwise presume about the laws of  _what is_ , and learn to accept all that I see without surprise. This is the realm of magic: no above or below, no hot or cold, no cause and effect. It is a riot on the senses, a place where the snow that falls from the oceans above does not feel cold unless I  _remember_  that it should.

And then, I am surrounded by an ominous mist.

The sky—if one might call it as such—is visible only in part. I do not know how I know, but still I know that the mist is alien to this place. Even in  _this_  place, where anything and everything seems to hinge only on the barest whims of the mind, this mist is not natural. It is sinister in ways that nothing else here is, or should be.

And is has been wreaking havoc on countless terrified souls. I encounter the first of many in short order: a fallen Stormcloak soldier, hopelessly lost, near-frantic with the fear that he might never reach Shor's Hall. "Turn back, traveler!" He warns, hunched over and pacing, "Terror awaits in the mist. M-Many have braved the shadowed veil but vain is all courage against the peril that guards the way."

"What is this mist?" I ask him, as calm as I am able. Spirits are terrible things when agitated enough, and although I have no way of knowing if being in Aetherius changes that fact, I would rather not test it.

"I-I do not know. But none have passed through. Alduin, his hunger insatiable, hunts the lost souls snared within this shadowed valley. Lost. I am lost." He stops very suddenly and turns to face me fully and look me over. " _Dragonborn_ ," he states with reverence, finally aware his of his company.

"I will try to clear it. Would you like to follow me?" I offer, seeing no reason not to do so. Better to win favors with the spirits here than leave them to be eaten.

The dead man's face blooms with hope. "Can you lead the way to where Shor's Hall waits, beckoning us on to welcome long sought?"

_Do all Nord dead speak so strangely?_  "I will do what I can. Get behind me." He obeys, and I Shout: " _LOK VAH KOOR!_ "

The soul gives a cry of delight at my display of power and its heartening results: great swaths of the mist evaporate all around us, leaving much of the path clear. I begin walking, wary of Alduin finding me before I might find him.

"I saw it when first I trod this long-sought path. Shor's Hall!" My ghostly companion chatters as we walk, seemingly unable to contain himself. "The pain and fear vanished, dreamlike, and a vision beckoned: Shor's Hall, shimmering across the clouded vale. But quenched was hope by the shrouding mist. My mind is darkened. I'd lost the way and wandered blindly. Your coming fills me with joy, great Dragonborn."

And indeed, many other souls come to show that they feel the same way. With every stretch of mist that I clear, dozens upon dozens of miserable wanderers approach to thank and follow me, all of them terrified of the mist, and more terrified of Alduin. The menagerie is incredible: Stormcloaks and Legionnaires, guards and peasants and nobles alike, all of them following me with simple hope on their faces, none of them bothered by their fellows who, in life, might once have been an enemy.

No, in fact, nearly all of them begin to sing… in  _Dovahzul_! I cannot even attempt to hide my surprise when, behind me, a chorus all but erupts, growing louder and louder as more souls hear my Thu'um and fall into step behind me.

 

_Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, naal ok zin los vahriin,_

_Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal!_

_Ahrk fin norok paal graan fod nust hon zindro zaan,_

_Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal!_

 

_Dragonborn, Dragonborn, by her honor is sworn,_

_To keep evil forever at bay!_

_And the fiercest foes rout when they hear triumph's shout,_

_Dragonborn, for your blessing we pray!_

 

" _LOK VAH KOOR!_ " The singing-chant is interrupted in places with mixed shouts of cheer, but never quite stops. Really I… do not know what to think. I am an Imperial woman, a mage, and a notorious criminal. I would have expected a lukewarm welcome at best, but certainly not… this.

Perhaps the hope of paradise is more important to them, no matter what form it might take. Even a foreign assassin is probably better than being in Alduin's belly, by all accounts. I decide to take it for what it is.

A collective cry of alarm erupts behind me, interrupting their chanting, when Alduin's shadowy form finally appears on the horizon. He roars with menace, but does not come very close.  _Interesting_.

"Dragonborn!" Many of the souls behind me cry out, desperate. "Dragonborn, Dragonborn!"

"With me!" I shout, though I never take my eyes from Alduin. "With me! Keep moving!"

I feel somewhat like a shepherd defending her sheep from the wolves. The next expanse of mist is cleared to reveal a shallow river and, across from that, the wispy beginnings of what I think is the whalebone bridge of Nordic legend. I press onward, though Alduin finally dares to fly overhead.

Many of the souls panic and begin to scatter, despite that their destination is growing ever the more visible.

" _LOK VAH KOOR!_ " A final Shout reveals it: the bridge to Shor's Hall, guarded by… I do not recall the spirit's name. He is Shor's housecarl, or some such thing.

Those who notice the bridge make their mad rush to cross it, none of them receiving any hindrance from its guard. It is only me whom he acknowledges when, after a moment, I make my own approach: "I am Tsun, shield-thane to Shor. What brings you, wayfarer grim, to wander here, in Sovngarde, souls-end, Shor's gift to honored dead?"

_Tsun_. Not housecarl, but thane. Really I make a poor Nordic champion, all things considered. I cannot even claim to know their lore.

"I pursue Alduin, the World-Eater, and thought it fit to guide a few of those souls out of his mist." I must crane my neck to look this spirit in the eye. He is utterly massive.

He shakes his head, a little sad, it would seem. "A fateful errand. No few have chafed to face the Worm since first he set his soul-snare here at Sovngarde's threshold. But Shor restrained our wrathful onslaught: perhaps, deep-counseled, your doom he foresaw."

"Yes, well," I say, and turn to glance at the mist once more, "I have only my task now. I will do what I can to clear this mist, and then I will challenge him."

"Dragonborn?" A strong, but gentle voice halts me just as I turn to leave. I swallow thickly.

I turn to meet her eyes. Svenja of Whiterun. We have met one another only three times: first when I killed her, second when I summoned her for Lydia, and third… well, now. She watches me from the whalebone bridge, and I notice, finally, that she is actually quite lovely.

Alduin roars his challenge in the air above and behind me, but I cannot deny this woman's call. I do not know her. I know nothing of her life or deeds other than that she had a son, and that I took her from him. It takes all my willpower not to look away in discomfort.

She speaks again when I cannot: "There are here some who would speak with you. Can you gain entrance to the Hall of Shor?"

I feel a brief rush of confusion. She, too, speaks with the same poetic register of all the other shades here, even though she sounded nothing like this when we spoke through the Eye of Magnus. Is this some odd characteristic of Sovngarde proper?

All the same, I oblige her and say to Tsun: "I seek entrance to the Hall."

He crosses his arms. "No shade are you, as usually here passes, but living, an Imperial, you dare the land of Nord dead. By what right do you request entry?"

I raise a brow, more than a little amazed that he would even ask. "I am the  _Dragonborn_."

He smirks at me, amused by my exasperation, because  _of course_  he knew this already. I suppose even minor gods must have a sense of humor, even if it is at my expense and I do not share in it. "It has been too long since I faced a doom-driven hero of the dragon blood. But you trespass here also, shadow-walker. Shor does not know you."

"Of course he does." I match Tsun's forbidding stance: arms crossed, head high. "I trespass only as much as  _you_  do, spirit. We both know that we stand here, now, because it is to this place that we have been called. Shadow-walker or no, the gods called me here."

Now he laughs. "This, I cannot deny. But perhaps you might yet earn the right to cross my bridge. Face me now, with honor, and I shall grant you passage."

" _You?_ " I back away from his impossible mass. The Nordic interpretation of  _honor_  involves face-to-face combat and heavy weapons, neither of which are featured among my skills. This man would, in other words, crush me like an insect.

"Are you now craven, Dragonborn?" He taunts, hefting a huge two-handed axe.

I fall into a defensive stance, not trusting him to reign in his attacks even as we speak. "I am a mage. Whatever sort of honor you may be expecting, it will not come from me."

"I have seen all sorts." He moves forward, slowly, as I move backward. "If you dare: come!"

I cast magical armor and leap to the side as he brings his weapon down with enough force to split the stone slab beneath our feet. He wrenches it back out with ease, like a knife through soft butter, and charges me, roaring. I leap away again, as far and as fast as I can, cursing to myself.

I have no field advantage, no feature of the land with which to hide myself or to elevate me beyond his reach. I have only my speed, wits, and willingness to stay alive.  _Think!_  His technique is more or less consistent: charge and swing. His stamina is probably limitless, so I cannot hope for him to tire himself out.

I roll away and behind him and cast a fire rune just at the edges of his heels. As could be predicted, it explodes from under him when he turns to charge me again. He grins at me from behind his raised axe, singed but otherwise unharmed. "It is long since an opponent has struck me with success."

"Then end this and let me do what I have come here to do!" I shout at him, annoyed and unwilling to expend all my energy in a battle I might nonetheless lose.

"Wield your little blade, shadow-walker. Show me what skill you have with it." He makes his slow, threatening approach again.

I draw it. "Are you mad?" I point to his weapon as I back away again. "Massive axe." I point to my own comparatively miniscule weapon. " _Dagger_. I will  _not_  pretend it is a sword merely for your amusement!"

"Wield it, craven!" I leap back again and his axe misses me by an inch, though I can feel its cut in the gush of wind it forces toward me.

"Wield it!" I repeat, mockingly, as I skitter all around him. "It is a secondary weapon! A last resort! A—" I bite the word off as an idea springs to mind. I do my best to create a better distance between us, and rely on his tendency to charge in a straight line.

Warriors of his ilk overpower their opponents. Eternal spirit or no, Tsun does not need to practice a great deal of finesse or strategy in his fights. As expected, he barrels toward me again. I take the razor-sharp tip of my dagger in between two fingers, and toss.

His head rears back as my blade buries itself in his brow. Were he not a spirit, this would have killed him instantly. In any case, it is still a little jarring to watch him as he skids to a halt, lowers his weapon, and pulls my blade from his head with a smile. He does not even bleed. "I have waited long for a worthy opponent. You fought with your mind, and you fought well."

Gingerly, I take my dagger back when he offers it to me. "May I pass now?"

"Yes. It is long since one of the living entered here. May Shor's favor follow you and your errand." He returns to his post, props his weapon against one of the bridge's support pillars, and gestures that I may move onward.

Svenja awaits me still. She has not moved, but watches me with interest as I approach her. "A good fight. The sight does much to soothe whatever doubts might remain."

"In whom?" I ask as I pick my way across the bones. A single misstep, and I could very well fall into the gaping abyss below.

"In those who doubt you. None can defeat Tsun. To those he finds worthy, he can only yield." She gestures to the great doors of the Hall of Valor once we finally reach them, indicating that I should do the honors. What would Lydia say to me now, I wonder, were she to see my present situation. Here I am, in Nordic paradise, having found victory over one of their most legendary figures, striding into the fabled Hall of Shor alongside one of my own murder victims.

Inside, all the feasting, rowdy spirits are quaffing mead and chanting that same peculiar song:

 

_Dragonborn, Dragonborn, by her honor is sworn,_

_To keep evil forever at bay!_

_And the fiercest foes rout when they hear triumph's shout,_

_Dragonborn, for your blessing we pray!_

 

In here, more than ever, I feel as if I am walking through a dream. The hall seems to stretch onward and onward toward eternity, all of it just as apparent as it is inconceivable. My mortal mind simply cannot grasp it, try though it might. A familiar fear rises against my will, tightening its grip over my stomach and digging its claws into my throat: what if I really am dreaming, and this is an indication that my mind has begun to spin out of control?

_What if…_  I squeeze my eyes shut, just for a moment. I am surrounded by all manner of sounds and smells: laughter, singing, food, drink. I pinch my inner wrist. It hurts.

"Will you follow me?" Svenja regains my attention with a light touch on my arm.

I do so, a little blinded and a little overwhelmed with all the unnatural light and noise of this place, not to mention being more than a little nervous, given my present company. And it only worsens, of course, when I am led to a table occupied by three more of my old victims. Lydia's friends. I stare, tongue-tied.

One of the men stands. "I am Tobias. This is Bjarn. This is Ulfgar. I trust you know us."

"I-I do, yes." I should have predicted that this might happen, in hindsight. Of course these four would be in Sovngarde.

"We know why you have come, Dragonborn. Alduin's soul-snare casts a shadow over the feasting of the Hall. Many here wish to fight him—many worthy heroes with tales greater than all ours combined—but Shor stays all our hands. But should you grant it, a few of us might yet raise our blades."

I furrow my brow. "You want to fight alongside me?"

"For the honor of victory over the World-Eater, yes, we ask to fight. Our families will go on, and we will be glad to know we had part in it. Would you grant us this boon?"

I look at them, all four of them, and take careful stock of their faces. They were all wearing helmets when they died, and their ghostly avatars in the Hall of the Elements did little to distinguish them, but now their features are perfectly clear. I do not share in the Nordic interpretation of glory and spiritual fulfillment, but I do understand what they want: to take part in a great battle against a powerful adversary, and to  _win_.

Such a strange world is this, in which only _I_  have the ability to provide them with the opportunity they seek; I, who took that first opportunity away from them. "It would be my honor," I reply sincerely.

 

* * *

 

Tsun and three other Tongues from some age long-past Shout their way over the fields of Sovngarde. They have agreed to keep the mist from returning to the field of battle while I and my four uncanny companions fight.

Lydia would be glad to know that I am not to fight alone, as she had feared. I hope that I will live long enough to tell her all about it.

He circles ahead and above, roaring. " _ALDUIN!_ " I Shout my furious challenge into the ocean-like sky. " _AL DU IN! Come, worm! Face me!_ "

I am afraid. Of course I am afraid. This creature has done more than enough to upset my already-fragile peace of mind, and I know that, when I absorb him, he will attempt to do so again. Even while prepared, I cannot say that I will be able to resist. I cannot know for sure if my room in the Tower is, in fact, where I really lie. I can only hope that victory will grant me some insight.

But still, when he comes, I raise my hands to the ready.

He is quicker this time, made cleverer by our previous encounter. He knows what I will do to defeat him, what I  _must_  do, and he does all that he can to leave me no opening, no clear shot.

I dance around his fires just as much as I make attempts to toss them back at him. The magic is different from normal Destruction, though, so I am not as successful. But I must be willing to stand under his fire and endure it, if only briefly, to have any hope of pulling him from the sky. He is careful not to stay in one place for too long, lest I Shout my mortality to his face.

But surely he does not expect me to take such a great risk in order to bring him down. I raise my hand.

" _YOL TOOR SHUL!_ "

I cast a ward just as soon as the flame touches ground, and for a brief, infinitely useful fraction of a second, the mighty Alduin is vulnerable just above my head. " _JOOR ZAH FRUL!_ "

The palm of my hand is burned quite severely, but my Shout makes its mark: the great black dragon plummets toward the ground, now bound to it, screaming as he did before. He crashes down in a great spray of dirt, breathing fire and kicking with furious rebellion. Svenja, Tobias, Ulfgar, and Bjarn charge the beast, swords flashing in the starlight of Aetherius.

I follow, moving in as close as I would dare, and attack with all the force I can muster. My right hand is nearly useless from the burn damage, but I have my left, and it is enough. It is  _more_  than enough. Alduin is alone here, grounded and faced with the overwhelming odds against him. His dragon army has begun to turn from him. The gods have turned from him, as is evidenced by my being here. And I am here to slay him,  _end him_ , because I have been given every reason in the world to do so.

I asked for none of this,  _none of it_ , but I have chosen to accept it.

My ghostly fellows are singing a battle song, the very same one that Lydia still sings on occasion. She must have learned it from them.

I do not allow Alduin to eat them. Even if this means that I cannot focus on killing him alone, I do it. I owe them as much. Let this be their great victory if they want it, I need only live long enough to absorb his soul and snuff him out. Even if I die, he will die with me. I cannot allow for any other outcome.

I focus powerful blasts of magic on his jaw, careful to render it fractured and useless even as I shatter all his teeth. Over and over, four swords pierce and hack at his scales and flesh from above, below, and all sides in between. He swipes at them with his claws, he tries to burn and rip them to shreds, but they are already dead. He cannot do to them what has already been done. He could only eat them, but I make this quite impossible for him.

My Thu'um is superior to his, it trumps his and keeps him bound to the dirt.

At this point, I have killed countless numbers of dragons, truly countless, and with every soul I have grown stronger. His power is  _mine_ , his lordship over all  _dovah_  is  _mine_. I am  _thur_ , master, superior, and I am furious and tired and I just want to kill him and go home.

The great black head rears up to release a blood-soaked Shout.

But I am faster: " _FUS RO DAH!_ " The force of my Thu'um catches Alduin's head and neck and forces both to bend backward at an unnatural, bone-snapping angle. The sound of it, a great, echoing  _crack_ , resounds all over the valley like a death knell.

The last thing I hear is an eruption of cheerful victory shouts.

 

* * *

 

_?_

 

Cold stone wall at my back. Wrists, chafing. Binds. Extra senses, gone.  _Magical_  binds. I am an animal, snarling. An animal in a forgotten cage.

_Drip_.

My vision clears. Low candlelight, but not enough for even the most crafty mage.

_Drip_.

Where am I? Rugs line the floor. A bed occupies one corner. The room is closed, locked. I am alone.

_Drip_.

A barred window, too high for me to reach. But the little water droplets, they crash against the sill. I can hear them. Outside, low light, low clouds. It has been raining.

_Drip_.

I hate the sound, how it repeats at regular intervals. I hear each drop before it comes. And then again when it does.  _Drip. Drip. Drip._  Which was the real one?

Nothing else. I, the solitude, the rugs, the bed, the candle flame, the droplets, the blood around my fingernails. Nothing else.

How long have I been here? Hours? Years?

My throat feels raw, like I have been screaming.  _Has the Thu'um ever hurt so much?_

_Has it?_

_Has it?_

_"_ _Has it?"_

"Who said that?" I ask the gloom in the far corner.

Nothing.

The door is heavy, made of iron. There is a slot, just near to the bottom, through which food and water can be passed. I close my eyes, try to concentrate, think.

_Drip._

Someone screams, from far away. Is that my voice?

I close my eyes like a reflex.

 

* * *

 

"There you go, my Lady, nice and comfortable."

Blankets, cushions on my back now. I open my eyes again and I am horizontal.  _But it was just a second ago…_   _that…_

How long have I been here?

Memories arise in flashes, true and false all at once. I am covered in bed sores, the result of very long periods of inertia. Memories, flashes, long stretches of desperate dreaming, of escape. Days pass, weeks, months. Years? It cannot be.

It cannot be.

Why have I not yet awoken? Why have I not emerged victorious, my mind clean and my inner peace restored with the certainty of Alduin's defeat?

Why am I here?

How long have I been here?

I feel like this is the first time, in a very long time, that I have truly opened my eyes. I feel like this is the first time, in a very long time, that I have spoken aloud.

The attendant strokes my dirty hair. The same kind eyes from before. Her voice.  _Her voice…_

"I know you," I tell her very suddenly. She is so very beautiful, this woman, with her shiny black hair and green, green eyes. "Lydia. Lydia, where am I?"

"You remembered." She gives me a kind smile. "And you're where you've always been, my Lady: your family's Tower in the Imperial City. Did you forget again?"

"The…" My chest tightens. Fear, real fear. The kind that shatters the very soul.

This room.  _This room._  A prison, a prison with pillows and attendants.  _The Tower_. This kindly woman, the Nord with green eyes. Lydia.  _My_  Lydia. "It's okay. Memory's a taxing thing when you're unwell."

"This is  _impossible_." Tears, hot and poisonous, prick my eyes. "We were in Skyrim… we… I am the Dragonborn. I defeated Alduin… Lydia, we have a  _baby_  together." Frantic. Terror.  _Help me_. "Why… what…"

"It's a baby now, is it?" She humors me. Her smile is filled with pity.

" _Corinna_." The tears spill over. A river. Liquid acid mourning. "Her name is Corinna."

"No, my Lady, that's your mother's name. You never had any children. Remember?" Still she strokes my hair. She wears an iron band on her finger, the ancient symbol of an Imperial marriage.  _She is married. She belongs to someone else_. "I brought you something to eat if—"

"She has your  _nose_ , Lydia!" She blurs. My eyes burn. I choke on the pain, its wet, corrosive claws on my throat. "I killed the World-Eater, Lydia. For her. For  _you_. In Sovngarde!"

"Imperials can't go to Sovngarde, I'm afraid." She holds a bowl of soup where I can see it.

"They can." I turn my face away. "They can. I was there."

"Lady Aestus." She touches my restrained hand, gently. "It gladdens me to see you a bit more lucid today, but you're still believing your delusions. You're too young to have fallen so far so quickly. Don't you want to walk outside again? You've been locked up in this room far too long."

" _I am not mad_." Pain, in my head. Behind my eyes.  _Help me_. "I am not! I cured House Aestus. It was Sheogorath. It was—"

"It is a sickness in the blood, my Lady. Passed from parent to child. No Daedric Princes. No magic. But you can work through it! You have to see the difference between reality and delusions."

She holds up the bowl again. The smell makes me want to vomit.

_I have fallen?_  No. No, I am too young. I could not have fallen. I escaped.  _I saved us_. But the soup makes me choke on the words.

_Have I been here, all along?_

It feels so real. This,  _all_  of this, feels just as real as all I felt in Skyrim. I feel my body, how it is sick and starving all at once. I  _feel_  it.

It cannot be possible. All those battles, all those things I saw and the people I met. All the pain I felt.  _Lydia_. All the trials she and I went through. All that we shared, taught one another.

_Was it just a dream?_

But it was so real. I flew atop dragons. I killed a god.  _I had a baby_.

The attendant with Lydia's face feeds me, spoonful by spoonful. Did I just include her in my dreams? But how?  _Why?_  Am I simply some lovesick madwoman, unable to accept that I shall never have her?

I am restrained. I have been restrained a long while, as indicated by the rawness of my wrists and ankles. If I were not, I would try to find a way to hurt myself, to see if I feel pain. But I cannot move.

"A dream," I say before she can pass the spoon between my lips again. "A delusion." My chest aches, my eyes burn. "If you could see them, you would cling to them as well."

"Tell you what." Lydia finally puts the bowl down. "Since you seem so clear today, I'll ask about letting you take a walk around the garden. How does that sound?"

"Alright." I close my eyes and mourn for my lost child.

She comes back an hour later to guide me out of my little room, down a long and miserable corridor, filled with the rants and screams of my kin, and into the sunlight. It is a garden surrounded by four tall, thick walls. No escape.

Flowers. Trees. Guards with great and fearsome weapons. Lydia, radiant in the light of the Cyrodilic sun. It hurts to look at her, to  _know_.

This feels too real, too much to be just a simple dream.

I walk among the flower beds, brushing the brittle petals with my fingertips. The wind whispers through branches and leaves. I dare not ask how long I have been in this place. I have no desire to know.

"Doesn't that feel nice?" Lydia follows close behind me, like a bird to its prey.

"Why do you speak  _Latine_  with no accent?" I ask her suddenly. "I love you dearly, but your accent is atrocious." I look up. The clouds of this morning have largely dispersed.

She makes no answer.

The breeze picks up just as I make an attempt to pinch my wrist. Its noise grows louder, buffeting against my ears in grand puffs. It pulls at my tattered clothes, my unclean hair. The wind grows louder. "May I have a bath?" Louder. The words fly from my mouth, scatter in the wind.

She says something back, but I cannot hear it. Louder.

Louder.

A roar. I look up.

Not a cloud. A dragon. A black dragon.  _Alduin_. I point. I scream. The dragon roars in my ears.

 

* * *

 

Blink.

The ceiling and silence and my window and the little candle greet me. And the black dragon, watching me, from his perch in a chair in the gloomy corner.

"Sad little worm," I mock. "Sad defeated god. You try to nip at my fingers, even now. I felt no pain."

The dragon shakes his head in pity. "No, miss. I am your healer."

" _Alduin_ ," I spit. "I can see you. I have not gone mad. You cannot make me think it so."

The dragon studies me. " _But only one of us can fly from this cell, Dovahkiin. Only one knows truth of mind_."

"It is  _me_ , you beast. I consumed your very soul." My fists clench.

" _I consume_ you _, mortal. Victory was never yours_."

"It was. It  _is_!" Anger. Anger so deep that I might melt in it. Hot enough to burn worlds. " _I am Thur_. I defeated you."

" _Let it burn you. Let it consume. Such is fitting of the World-Eater. Give up. Accept your fate._ "

The rage crackles. I will burst with it. " _I will burn_ you." The Thu'um is in my voice.

His claw touches my chin. " _Then all creation, World-Eater_."

_All creation_. I inhale, coughing. "I will not become you. I will not give up to you. I will not destroy the world I just saved.  _No_."

" _Succumb to me, Dovahkiin. There is no other way to free yourself of this room. Surrender to me and you will be able to destroy it_."

" _No!_  The world will go on.  _My child will live_. My mind is not yours to corrupt or take hold of,  _worm_." I stand, shaking. "You entered my mind and learned my fears. You use them against me so that my soul will stop fighting." I raise my head high. "This room is not real."

The walls begin to melt. " _Succumb!_ " The dragon roars. " _No Thu'um can surpass mine!_ "

"This is Aetherius." I pull off the magical binds. "Sovngarde. My mind is my own, long fought for, well-earned. I will not relinquish it now."

The room explodes, shatters like glass, and the apparition of the World-Eater disappears with it. My eyes burst open and I sit up with a painful gasp. I am Amara Leone Aestus, the  _Dovahkiin_. Alduin's soul is mine, and not mine his.

But I shake. I could deny it until the end of time, but… I am afraid to wake up again. I felt no pain in that dream, which gives me a measure of peace, but that small kernel of doubt might forever be, I think, my own burden to bear.

I take in my surroundings: I am in the Hall of Valor, atop some sort of couch. How long I have been here, I cannot say. The soreness in my back seems to indicate that it has been longer than a few hours.

But Svenja, it would seem, has been watching over me. She offers her hand and pulls me to my feet. "He showed me that which I feared most," I whisper.

"And still you were strong. You know the truth. You knew it to the depths of your soul, and it kept you." She clasps my shoulder.

"Even so, I… I have a request." I look her in the eye, direct and unwavering, and more than a little shaken.

"What is it?"

"Dreamers feel no pain." I take a deep breath. "I want you to hit me as hard as you can."

Though she seems a gentle sort of woman, her punch hurts far more than I could have guessed, though I admit I cannot blame her for using such force. She has every reason and more to hit me. " _Ecastor!_ " I exclaim, feeling for any breaks with my fingers. "I think you broke my jaw."

"Tsun awaits you at the end of the bridge. He will send you home. Ah…" She pauses, then pulls a folded letter from her pocket. "Would you… give this to Hroar?"

I take it, gently, my throat growing thick all over again. I finally notice that my right hand is fully healed, and my brow furrows. "Of course."

"Good." She makes to depart. "You… do have our gratitude, Dragonborn. Though unlikely it was, you have it all the same. Be good to Lydia and… take care of my son." She turns away and disappears into the throng of revelers, wispy and imperceptible as a ghost.

I am left speechless and staring down at her letter, and the suspiciously-healed hand that holds it. Unless someone here has cast some excellent healing magic on me, this should have taken a long time to mend so completely, even with magic. Leon's burns from the Dwarven centurion took  _weeks_  and—

I startle. By the gods, I am  _alive_. I am victorious, standing here, my task complete, ready to go home and see them again and begin cleaning up all the rest of my worldly mess. My clothes and belongings are intact and on my person. I can  _go_. After everything I have just seen and endured, after the long battle against the weakness of my own mind, I am here. I am free.

I have to stop myself from skipping out the door. Any other scholar would fight to stay in this place and study it, and perhaps I ought to, but I will not.

I just want to go home.

I find Tsun at his eternal post in front of the whalebone bridge. He gives me a pat on the shoulder which, of course, feels much more like a hard shove. "Finally awake! Yours was a mighty deed. The doom of Alduin is encompassed at last, and Sovngarde is cleaned of his evil snare. They will sing of this battle in Shor's Hall forever. But your fate, friend of mine, lies yet elsewhere."

"Are you able to send me home?" I ask him, still a little weary and still rubbing at my aching jaw.

"I can. But when you have completed your count of days, I may welcome you again, and bid you join the blessed feasting."

I try not to imagine myself spending the rest of eternity in a fat, drunken stupor. "Thank you… but… for now…"

Tsun bows his head. "All Sovngarde, all creation, thanks you, Dragonborn."

I close my eyes.

 

* * *

 

_Author's Note:_

 

_1\. Leon's really grown on me as a character. Initially I brought him in just to give my readers a broader idea of Amara's family background, but as the story progressed, I found his presence becoming more and more of an asset. It culminates with the issue of who will have custody over Corinna. Amara and Lydia can't marry. I'm sorry, they just can't. Neither of them is in the right place for it and it just wouldn't feel right to write it in. If Leon hadn't been there, then Corinna could very well have been sent to an orphanage. And, moreover, I want him and Lydia to have a friendly relationship with or without Amara, though of course that'll take some time yet._

_2\. On the matter of all the other dragons in Skyrim: In my opinion, it's a better strategy just to force them into subservience under the Dragonborn rather than spend who-knows-how-much-time hunting them all down. That way, Amara could preserve what remains of Skyrim's infrastructure while ensuring that she won't have to commit genocide. It's meant to be understood, here, that Odahviing's going to spread the word while Amara's off kicking ass in Sovngarde._

_3\. On the matter of draugr one-hit-kill headshots: Well, it just makes sense to me. It's basically the rule of zombies. So… there. :)_

_4\. The puzzle door at Skuldafn was Amara's first one because she never went to Bleak Falls Barrow. As I said before, I hate the Blades._

_5\. The idea to use Tobias, Svenja, Bjarn, and Ulfgar in the final boss fight (instead of those… old people or whatever they were) seemed a much better way to end things. I can't say for sure that it brings everything full-circle, but I think it was a really good direction to take. There's an old rule in writing that says you should never introduce new characters toward the end of a story, and I always thought it was heavy-handed of Bethesda to add those three Sovngarde warriors like they did. So I used some more meaningful characters instead, and I have to admit, I'm satisfied with how it all turned out._

_6\. A final word on Aestus madness: I hope you understand why I've emphasized it so much. I'll be blunt… the final battle in Skyrim is really, really,_ really _disappointing. I charged in there and took Alduin down in, like, two minutes… tops. He needed something, like a trump card that sets him apart from other dragons. The visions of the Tower were his trump card: if absorbed, he tries to overwhelm the victor's spirit however he can, and if successful, he uses that body to continue on as the World-Eater. He tried to do as much with Amara, but she resisted, and was able to subdue him in the end._

_7\. I almost included a little part where Lydia's friends draw straws on who gets to punch Amara in the face. Just… thought I'd put that out there._


	23. Epilogue: Dragonslayer

**Epilogue: Dragonslayer**

 

_?_

 

I am met by a frigid wind, riddled with snow, and thin of breathable air.

The Throat of the World.

" _Alduin mahlaan!_ " Their collective cry erupts over ice and flurry and through the air. There are so many, dozens perhaps, all here to acknowledge me. I cannot help my swell of pride, clash though it might with my growing sense of exhaustion.

" _Sahrot thur qahnaraan!_ "

" _Alduin mahlaan!_ "

Oh indeed. I meet eyes with Paarthurnax, who watches me from atop his ancient Word Wall. Even he bows his head. "So, it is done.  _Alduin dilon_. The Eldest is no more, he who came before all others, and has always been."

I take a moment to reflect before I make my reply. "I did what had to be done." I look all around, completely unable to gauge the date or the time of day thanks to the snowy mountain weather.

I just want, so  _badly_ , to believe that I am really here.

"Still… I cannot celebrate his fall. He was my brother once. But he flew far from the path of right action in his  _pahlok_ , the arrogance of his power. Now, at least, the world will continue to exist." He looks away from me, off and into the distance, perhaps lost in thought. "But I forget myself.  _Krosis_. Yours is a mighty triumph, and you should savor it."

"I would just like to go…" I pause. How long have I been away? Surely no more than a few weeks, I would hope, but time moves very differently in Aetherius—if indeed it moves at all—and it is impossible for me to guess.

Furthermore, I have no idea how long Alduin held my mind in his grasp. I glance, nervously, at my well-healed hand. It felt like… a very long time.

Rushed footfalls crunch in the snow behind my back, and I glance over my shoulder to see Arngeir hurrying toward me, having come from High Hrothgar, his face showing a perfect expression of shock. He is followed by someone unfamiliar to me: a young man dressed in what I presume to be the garb of a Greybeard novice.

He slows and stops at a small distance from me, still visibly riddled with disbelief even as I turn to face him fully, his companion just behind him. My throat grows tight: the Greybeards have had at least enough time to bolster their numbers.

How long might that have taken?

"By Kynareth," says Arngeir, more to himself than to me, "no wonder we heard such an uproar.  _Dovahkiin_ …" He bows, as does the silent novice.

I admit, I am unsure of what I should say exactly. "Hello…" I begin, though with a slight falter, wondering briefly if it might just be better to remain silent. After all, what does one say to those who look upon her as if she were a ghost?

"You've done it, then?" He takes a step forward, curious, perhaps desiring to better read my magical aura… or, perhaps, to better affirm that I truly stand here in the flesh.

"Yes." I look down at my hands, unexpectedly awkward. A dreaded question hangs just on the tip of my tongue.

"Ah…" Now Arngeir is the one to falter, having sensed my discomfort. "Come with us. You look like you need to rest and eat."

"Do you know aught of my brother and housecarl?" I force myself to ask my question before my overtaxed nerves fail me completely. Standing in the snow before this peculiar and powerful man, my task complete, my survival confirmed, I can feel the beginnings of some nameless sort of trembling lethargy, akin to the pitiful exhausted shaking of a muscle long held tense. I fight not to collapse under the sudden and incredible weight of it. It is… not yet the time to rest.

"I have a letter from…" he pauses, "some time ago. I'll gladly show it to you, but I think you should come sit down a moment first. Take some time to gain your bearings."

I feel sick. "Arngeir…"

"They are alive, so far that I know," he offers quickly, having read my expression. "Your brother was the sender. He wrote to me as a precaution, just in case I were to somehow learn of your fate." He then extends a gentle hand. "Please, Dragonborn, come."

"Arngeir…" I repeat, though now more in warning than supplication.

Still, the old Greybeard hesitates. His companion, the novice who stands at his shoulder, looks for all the world like a statue of pale stone, so still is he.

How long might it take for a young man to initiate into the Greybeards? Six months? A year? Half a decade?

And how long might it take for all the mortal world to believe me dead?

"They should be in Winterhold, at the College," he acquiesces, though softly. "He promised to write again, were that to change, but I have received nothing since."

"Since  _when_?" My voice is tight.

Another stifling pause. "It has been… two years, Dragonborn. Nearly three."

Several dragons are perched on the massive crags that surround us, watching the exchange. From the corner of my eye, blurring though it is with shock and fury, I see one of them spread its wings and take flight. The hard mountain rock trembles beneath my feet when that same dragon touches down just behind me.

" _Dovahkiin, thuri_." I do not turn, but I recognize the voice of Odahviing. "You have proven the mastery of your Thu'um twice over, and I will gladly acknowledge its strength. I know where you want to go. I will take you."

"I think she should take some time…" Arngeir tries to intervene, but he grows silent when I give a shake of my head.

"Tell me the date." I have already begun to climb atop Odahviing, though it is made more difficult by the insistent shaking of my hands.

"Third of Last Seed," he says, "year two-hundred five."

I bow my head. I tell him: "Thank you," then order Odahviing to fly.

 

* * *

 

_3 Last Seed, 4E205_

 

Two years, lost to the World-Eater. More than two.

In a few months, my daughter will be three years old. While in Aetherius, where time moves differently, while I was busy breaking the neck of an ancient god, Corinna smiled for the first time. While I lay screaming in the prison of my own mind, where time was immeasurable and meaningless, Corinna learned to roll, to crawl, then to take her first few little steps. While I fought against  _myself_  so that I might preserve all creation, and so I might maintain my place  _in_  it, Corinna spoke her first words.

Growing numb, though not from the cold wind, I wonder, idly, if I could have been stronger. Could I have had greater fortitude, though I had been pitted against my own mind? Could I have won sooner, awoken earlier, and returned in time to watch her grow?

I do not know.

If there is a deity to blame, I cannot name him. Really I suppose I should be… grateful that I have been given leave to set foot in the mortal plane once again, given all I have faced, and all I have done. "But still…" I say aloud and to no one, while the wind steals the words from my lips in its chilled frenzy. "Still…"

I will be a stranger to her, and to her caregivers besides. A ghost.

Will I face surprise? Anger? Indifference? Has Lydia…

I squeeze my eyes shut, but again, it is not because of the wind.

Long ago, Arngeir once likened me to the old Nibenean story of  _Akhilleus_ : formidable and deadly in every conceivable way, touched as he was by the divine, he was felled nonetheless by a mere strike to the heel. It was his only weakness, inconsequential though it seemed.

Should I take heart, then, in the knowledge that I have at least survived the strike to my proverbial heel? My body has been twisted, distorted and tempered to suit the needs of the divine, but for all that meddling, my mind never felt their touch. They never granted me true lucidity: no, what precious, tremulous remainder I took back from Sheogorath has always been mine alone to nurture and defend.

It was—and still  _is_ , and always shall be—my crippling mortal weakness, my burden to bear. I should be proud to think that my survival has come of my own strength of resolve. I should be glad to know that I have paid for my weakness with the passage of a trifling few years, rather than with my very life.

Still…

Let this be the very last time that I fall prey to it. My eyes still closed, the thin icy wind of Skyrim whipping my hair to and fro, soaring high above the clouds toward the unknown, I dip my weary head and pray:  _Let this be the last time_.

I am not some mythical hero. I am not a wholly good person. I am well aware of all my deeds and the motives behind them, and I am not naive enough to believe that all the lives I have just saved will negate the loss of all the lives I have taken. I think I will spend all the rest of my days in reflection, never again to raise my blade unduly, as I have promised Lydia. But, I beg, let this final leg of my journey be indeed final.  _Let me stay_.

I am Amara Leone Aestus, scholar, wayward daughter, Dragonborn and assassin of legend. Let me carry all these things quietly, for better or for worse.  _Please_.

After some time, Odahviing dips once more below the clouds and toward the snowy earth. We are drawing close to Winterhold, and even from here, I can see the outline of the College against the hazy gray northern sky. My pulse quickens.

"I will bring you as close as I can,  _thuri_ ," Odahviing's voice booms over the wind. "Too near and the  _joorre_  will attack."

I need not respond, but merely wait for him to find the road and land near to it. I climb down, slowly, a little worse for wear, but thrumming with anticipation and nervous energy. What welcome, if any, awaits me? I have no way of knowing if they are here or even _alive_. All that I know comes from a precautionary letter already two years out of date.

I thank Odahviing, quietly, before starting on my walk. He quickly takes back to the sky in a rush of wings.

It snows year-round in Winterhold. There must have been a storm this morning, as the land all around me is blanketed in fresh, crisp white. Sunlight glares off of great swathes of the frozen fields to near-blinding effect, forcing me to pull up the hood of my cloak and lower my eyes to the road itself.

I pass a small group nearer to town, but no one stops to speak with me, or spares me nary a glance. All the better, really. I would rather not be recognized prematurely.

I have no particular plan. How could I have one, after all, after finding myself dropped suddenly into a future I never could have predicted? I can do nothing but forge onward, even though I have no idea what I will find here, or what sort of people.

I can feel my heart thrumming against my breastbone.  _Lydia_. Has she come to resent me? Is she even still here, if ever she was? Her face swirls before my mind's eye, stern and lovely, dearer to me than that of any other woman in this world. Has she forgotten me?

My fists clench. Has she perhaps found another?

It would be reasonable for her to believe that I had died. What, then, could have hindered her from courting a woman far less complicated than I? What could have stopped her from finding a partner who has never, say, committed the crime of murder… and especially never against Lydia's own friends?

The urge to walk more slowly arises in me, but I resist it. I am afraid of what I might find, yes, but I have to know. I  _must_  know. I would choose to go nowhere else, not now.

I pass through Winterhold proper. Sparse villagers and workers dot the main thoroughfare, but for the most part, all is quiet. I do not allow myself to pause before ascending the ramp to the College gates, and I lower my hood before Faralda can make her warning speech.

"Amara…?" She says my name quietly, and with obvious disbelief.

I look toward the College, feeling for all the world as if my blood has frozen to ice. Good that my cloak hides my shaking hands. "Are they here?"

She comes to her senses after a brief lapse. "Yes," she breathes. "This is—this is unbelievable. What happened to you? They said you'd died—"

Her speech cuts away suddenly when I clap my hands together and the gates open before me. I cannot remember, just now, if I am  _supposed_  to know how to do that. "Where is Lydia?"

She follows me, too astonished to pay her guard post much heed. "Wherever Corinna is, and that seems to change every twenty minutes these days."

My step falters, but I say nothing. As I approach the outer wall, the sound of playful barking carries through the gaping threshold left by the second pair of opened gates. I cross it, and step into the snowy courtyard.

Duran bursts into view from behind the magicka well, chased by a tiny body cloaked in Aestus blue. Laughing, the little girl falls face-first into the snow, imbalanced by inexperienced legs and the frenzy and fun of her chase, only to scramble to her feet again, her cheeks ruddy with exertion and cold, and watch curiously as her pet, my Duran, makes a sudden beeline toward his long-lost mistress.

I let Duran nuzzle under my palm, but my eyes are fixed on my daughter, who watches me likewise. Yes, she could be no other. The fiery little wisps of hair that I remember have grown into flowing, unruly curls, now half-soaked with melting snow. Her skin is like Lydia's: a slight shade paler than mine, much more Nordic than Imperial, and still seems to emanate that same faint, elusive brightness that is unique to her.

My eyes finally fill with tears. "Gods above…" I whisper, almost… unwilling to accept the sight before me. My Corinna. I left her when she was but a few days old. My Corinna has grown, and now, she runs toward the safety of her other parent, the only one she has ever known.

Lydia… divines help me, seated to one side of the courtyard, stock-still with such a heartbreaking expression of shock on her face, watches me, wide-eyed. A tiny doll is clutched between both her hands, though she appears heedless of the sewing needle, with which she had been repairing the toy, that now pricks her finger. A tiny drop of blood falls to the snow.

Shaking, cautious, perhaps a little faint, I cross the short distance between us. When I come near enough to Lydia, I reach out with a trembling hand to pull the needle away. I press her fingers between both of mine, and then with a small spark of magic, I close the trifling wound.

I do not release her. I cannot. My skin must feel like ice, but hers is warm, and I press her knuckles to my lips before I can think to hesitate.

For a single, instant, infinite breath, she remains still. Then the stones of the College walls resound with her shout of astonishment, joy, anguish, disbelief… and the world is suddenly spinning from where I can see it, over her shoulder, and I realize I am in her arms, twirling. It ends as soon as it begins, with my feet on the ground and my face held between her hands, her thumbs brushing away the tears I had not felt myself shed.

She holds me in this way, as if to affirm that her eyes do not deceive her.

But she weeps as I do, and I reach up to dry her cheeks with my fingers, my touch delicate and reverent despite my trembling. She is beautiful, far more beautiful than the uninspired likeness with which Alduin tried to undo me. No projection could ever imitate the sharp green intensity of her gaze, nor the faint luminescence that flares as she drinks in the sight of me, and I her.

"Y-You're…" she stutters, not knowing what to say. Then, when two little arms wrap around her leg, she looks down, and her tears come afresh.

Such lovely green eyes peek up at me, verdant and striking as those of the woman I hold yet fast. It is a curious thing, this need of mine to laugh and sob all at once. This tiny stranger, who once grew inside me, has long forgotten the precious first days of her life through which I held her, and knows not what to make of me now.

This reunion is thus bittersweet: so good that it hurts, so fulfilling that it leaves me dissatisfied. I left so that I might save my newborn child, and in so doing, I have given that child the time to grow up until I can hardly recognize her.

But oh, how lovely she is. Time has taken my baby and remade her with a tender touch, such that I am compelled to reach out to her and pull her to my breast as I once had, long ago, though I hesitate. She does not know me. She may very well fear me. I swallow thickly.

I release Lydia and lower myself to the snowy ground instead, slowly, gently, coming to sit with my legs folded beneath me, leveling my gaze with that of Corinna. I search for something to say…  _something_ … but my throat feels almost too tight to admit the passage of mere words. What does one even say to a child so small? " _Salve_ …" I breathe, and the word sounds more like a prayer than a greeting. It is all I can manage, all I can say, just as it had been when she had first been placed in my arms.

"Hi," comes the timid reply, from behind Lydia's calf.

Corinna's doll, the one which Lydia had been repairing, lies in the snow at arm's length from me. I take it into my hands.

I do not know how to speak to children. I never learned, never had any desire to know. But now… by the divines, now I would give anything just to find some way to reach her, to gain her confidence. I will never regain the past years of this child's life, but I might yet prove that I will be by her side for all years hence. She shall have all the rest of my days, all my devotion, all that I have to give. I will be whatever she needs me to be.

I offer the doll. "Is this yours?" When Corinna still does not move, perhaps intimidated by my insistent tears, I chide myself a little and dry my face on the back of my sleeve. "Ah, forgive me, I am just…" I fumble again. "I am… very happy to finally meet you."

"Corinna," Lydia calls with a soft and shaking voice. With a gentle nudge, she coaxes our daughter from her hiding place and into full view, then crouches down behind her. "Love, do you know who this is?"

The child squirms. I offer the doll again, and this time she takes it and clutches it to her chest. "I like your hair," she mumbles.

I smile. "I like yours." I pull one of my curls between two fingers. "We have the same color, do we not? And… And you have a very pretty name, Corinna. My name is Amara."

She looks up at me through hooded eyes. "Are you my Mama?" She asks me very directly, very suddenly. "You beat 'da bad dragon?"

Stricken dumb again, I raise my eyes to Lydia, who offers naught but a watery smile. "I…" I wipe fresh tears away. "You know of me?"

"Yes!" She exclaims, suddenly rather excited. Her whole countenance changes in a fraction of a second, leaving me, I admit, somewhat startled. Are all children like this? "You beat 'da bad dragon? You live with me now?"

Helpless, hardly daring to speak, I look to Lydia again, who says: "Bedtime stories, every night. You'd come home when the world was safe."

My head dips, unable to resist another swell of emotion. It is not enough to say that I am touched. The words do this feeling too little justice. "Is there another… There is no one…?"

"There's you," is her simple answer to my unfinished question.

" _Gods_ ," I plead, to nothing and no one; an empty word for an infinite feeling. I revoke all my negative musings from my journey here. I am fortunate. I am lucky. I am blessed. I have lost two-and-a-half years, yes, but I have not been forgotten, not even when it appeared that I had died. What a boon for a wretch so ill-deserving as I.

A feather-light touch brushes my cheek, given by a tiny, timid hand. "Don't cry," soothes the child's voice.

I pull her, finally, into my embrace. She does not resist, and the relief I feel is overwhelming. "Shall I live with you, my Corinna? Do you want that?"

"Yeah!" She wriggles until I free her, but I am not given much opportunity to be disappointed, as she immediately begins to tug on my cloak. "We build a snowman?"

I try to pull myself together, if not for my own sake, then for my daughter's. "A… what?" Are all children so easily able to jump from one subject to another? Especially in a situation like… this?

"A snowman. You know." Lydia rises and offers me her hand, which I take. "It's kind of her new thing."

I pull her close again, even if I must be brief. Corinna seems insistent, and I notice, moreover, that my reappearance has begun to draw a crowd around us. Word travels quickly in the College of Winterhold, after all. "It does not snow in the Imperial City."

"You mean you really don't know what it is?"

I bend down a little and allow Corinna to take my hand. "A humanoid sculpture built from snow, judging by the name."

"Trust you to make it sound like a royal art commission." She presses my other hand and teases me with such gladness in her voice, relieved, I think, to speak to me in a way so… familiar.

Corinna does her best to pull me along. "Uncle! Uncle, look! Mama beat 'da dragon!"

I look away from Lydia, finally, and toward the doors of the Hall of the Elements, where there stands another familiar figure, though he wears somewhat unfamiliar garb. My heart swells all over again to see him. "Leon…"

My elder brother, dressed in the robes of the Arch-Mage, breaks his wordless, teary-eyed pose and moves quickly to take me in his arms. "Mara!  _Marella mea, vivis!_  I had thought—divines, I thought you were dead."

I wrap but one arm around his waist, as my other is yet occupied by Corinna, who now stretches high to maintain her grasp. "Nearly," I admit to him, in a low voice. "Nearly."

"We will talk," he says over the top of my head. "We… ah, not now. Not now. Forgive me for distracting your Mama,  _ocelle_ , I… have missed her so very much," he says to the still-tugging Corinna. "I would have approached you sooner," he then tells me, "but to see you speaking with her… ah, I dared not interrupt."

My daughter says something, but her speech is childish and a little garbled, and I do not fully understand. "What did she say?" I ask him.

"Mm," he hums as he wipes his eyes and tries to pick her up, but she resists, hanging still on my hand and my cloak. "To play with her, I think. Unlike us, children need rather little time to reflect." He laughs, happy and sad all at once, a hand now over his heart. "I had feared we might soon be forced to tell her of your fate."

"She can find out for herself, now." Lydia rests a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Right?"

I lay my free hand over hers. "Yes. Alduin is gone, and the other dragons are no longer a threat. I have made sure of it. Now I can… well…" I squeeze Lydia's hand and wipe at tears again before crouching down to meet eyes with Corinna, who seems to be growing rather impatient. "Ah, I… am afraid I have never built a snowman before. Could you show me?"

This is fitting, I think. Exhausted, emotionally strung, having only just returned from seeing my greatest fears realized and from killing a world-hungry god, I could have done many things. I could have run away. I could have demanded sleep, or a healer, or the privacy in which to weep bitterly. I could have gone to the Imperial City to declare myself the next Dragonborn Empress of Tamriel. I could have been, for all intents and purposes, the next worldly Tiber Septim.

But I kneel here, in this ancient courtyard in northern Skyrim, and help a beautiful little girl pack snow into crude spheres. I do this because it delights her.

It is only fitting, it is only right, and there is nothing else I would rather do, no place I would rather be.

 

* * *

 

"It's this way," Lydia whispers as she leads me through a door, itself situated to the side of Leon's living space in the Arch-Mage's tower, and down a low-lit corridor. Corinna sleeps like a stone in her arms.

Duran follows us, close at my heels. "I am surprised you kept him," I remark quietly.

"Eh," she grumbles, "Corinna likes him. And I kind of owe him one."

"Oh?"

I follow her into her apartments, then through another door and into a small, but cozy, child's room. There, she gently lays our daughter on the bed and covers her with a blanket. "Yeah, uh… Sometimes people in town say they hear strange howling. We say it's just the dog. They don't really believe it, but," she shrugs, "it's not like they'll come in here to check." She bends to kiss Corinna's brow.

I move forward, far more timid than I would like to admit, and Lydia puts an arm around me while I gaze down upon the little bed and its occupant. Shall I kiss her as well? Is it appropriate?

"Go on," she prompts me, gently, as if having read my thoughts.

I bend and, as softly as I am able, I kiss my sleeping child. She does not stir. Nothing profound happens. It is just an act, an expression of affection as old and mundane and natural as parenthood itself, but inside of me, here, now, a storm rages.

I will need time. I will need time and space and peace, I will need to reflect, and I… still need to learn how to be a mother. But… "I can," I whisper to her. I never thought I would do so, I never thought I would  _want_  to, much less make it this far without dying or going insane, but I… am a changed woman.

I have been forced to endure a great many things, but I have come to decide that I am not jaded. Some might choose to view all my trials, including the conception and birth of my daughter, as a series of hard lessons meant to balance out all the evil of which I am guilty. Perhaps this is true. They are just as well a clever ploy of the divines to teach a cold and empty assassin how it must really feel to love another, and not just with the body, but also with the spirit.  _Or_ they were simply a means to manipulate me into feeling a sense of responsibility for this world, or at least for my child.

Any interpretation is plausible, really. Though what matters, I think, is the fact that I could have, at any time, walked away from all of it. I could have refused Lydia's insistent request to accompany me out of Whiterun, or alternatively, I could have killed her on the way to Dawnstar. I chose not to.

I could have gone to the Greybeards, as had been ordered by Sithis, learned what they wanted of me, scoffed, and returned to Dawnstar. I was ordered merely to go to them. I was not ordered to do their bidding. But I did it.

I could have ignored Leon's summons out of concern for my own deteriorating faculties, but I went to him, and together, we freed our House of its 200-year curse.

I could have aborted my pregnancy when first I discovered it. But through all the shock, fear, dread, and confusion, I kept that child still. In the end,  _yes_ , Corinna's existence is ultimately the result of my own choosing. In the end, I wanted her.

I could have remained the Listener, and nothing else: cold, empty, angry, alone. After all, I am not a good woman. In many respects, the darker, crueler parts of my spirit will always form a part of what, and who, I am. The unfeeling assassin will always be…  _there_ , as it were. But I have been shown too, time and again, that such leanings are only part of the whole. Here is the finest example of that lesson: the sleeping child, upon whose brow I lay another kiss, and the tall, loyal, beautiful, strong and troubled woman standing yet at my side.

I love them. I need not say much else. I love them, and I love my brother, and I loved my clever and ever-faithful Ungolim. I need not be one thing or another, Dragonborn or Listener, mad Aestus or mage or mortal or whatever else, to make choices out of love for them. Are my reasons perfect? No. They are still selfish, after a sense, but that is my own business.

No, what matters now, what is truly  _important_ , is that I have managed to survive, walk away, and find welcome here. I am here, I am alive, and I am given the opportunity to build a different kind of life.

The hearth of the main room is blazing and merry, and Duran is stretched out before it. Lydia gazes into it, her hands in her pockets. "You're probably not ready to talk about it yet. That's fine. Just know I'm… I'm here. Like always. I… damn." She shakes her head a little, as if to ease the trembling of her shoulders. "What a day."

I move close. I touch her face. We still have so much to discuss and work on, so many things to say yet, but I am thankful that, even now, I can make this simple gesture of affection. I pull her face down so that our foreheads touch, and I let her feel my breathy words on her lips as I speak them. "I will be here with you. If you will have me, I will be here. We will have all the time in the world to talk."

"There's a lot to say." Her hands come round my hips and grasp them firmly. "A lot of… stuff I want to tell you. And a lot of other… just…" She shakes her head again and moves to bury it against my neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply as she does. "I don't know where to start. I can still hardly believe you're actually here."

_Nor I_ , I think, but I do not say it aloud. It would be of little use. For now, all I want is to comfort us both. "I missed you."

"I  _mourned_  you," she returns, never lifting her head from my neck. "I'dve gone feral if not for Corinna. And even then I… I'm always so afraid of hurting or scaring her and… It's been nearly  _three years_ , Amara. I'd lay awake at night and just… just…" She takes a breath. "By Talos, I can't even keep my thoughts in order. I just—"

"I love you," I whisper against her ear, silencing her and her rambling. "I love you so much that not even a god could stop me from destroying him and returning to you. Forgive me for taking so long. The battle was… lengthy."

"Are you apologizing? Seriously?" She sounds exasperated, but not upset. "I'll hazard a guess and say you're just doing it to make me feel better, but—"

"I  _am_  doing it to make you feel better, and also because I just want to say it to you. I love you, I have missed you, and I have been blessed with leave to see you again. If these past years have left you cold then, please, allow me to woo you properly. I am thoroughly terrible at it, but my hope is that you will appreciate the effort."

She sighs. "You've got many talents, Amara, but jokes aren't one of them. And I love you, too."

I rub small circles on her lower back. "As I said: I hope you will appreciate the effort."

She is then silent for a moment. "You'd woo a werewolf?"

"Oh, Lydia," I kiss her ear, "I would  _have children_  with a werewolf."

She snickers, despite herself. "Alright. Alright, fine. You can woo me. It sounds more fun than holding eachother and crying."

"Which… in all seriousness, we may do, if you need to." I nudge her head with my shoulder, prompting her to look at me. Our noses touch. "I know you might need some time to adjust. I will, too. But I am not going anywhere. Ah…" I hesitate a little. "Unless you… prefer I sleep somewhere else?"

And now, finally, she kisses me. It is passionate without being overly rough, and everything about it is characteristic of her: the warmth of her embrace, the contrast of her soft lips with her toned muscles, her icy scent, her reverent touch… all of it is equally enticing and tender, as is she. "Does that answer your question?"

"I may have grown a little hard of hearing." I smile against her lips, happy simply to be like this, happy simply to…  _be_  with her.

She makes no direct response, but instead leads me to her room and bed, where we lie down together and she repeats her answer several times over. It is enough for us, tonight, just to kiss and touch, to press close, to share breath and presence. We will have time for more, plenty of time. For now, my task is merely to reassure her, however I might, that I will not be gone by morning.

Eventually, she does find peace enough to fall asleep. Though I am myself very tired, I cannot help but to take the time to observe her. My Lydia. I know the weight, the significance, the complexity of calling her  _mine_. I know. We both know.

Between us, there is much work to be done yet. We know. But just now, I am content to watch over her, as it is rare to see her in true repose. Her breathing is even, despite the odd restlessness with which every werewolf is said to sleep.

All is quiet but for that soothing sound. I press closer to her, close my eyes, and listen.

 

**THE END**

 

* * *

 

_Author's Note:_

 

_Everyone, thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for completing this journey with me. This story has been quite an experience to write… In truth, when I first started writing it, I never expected that it would turn out so long! But I'm glad I took my time with it, and I hope all of you have enjoyed it._

**_Amara, Lydia, Corinna & Co. will return in "Dragonborn"_ **


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